“And then—?” I began, but he cut my question in two with a quick gesture and a smile.

“And then, my friend, we shall be guided by circumstances, and if there are no circumstances, cordieu, but we shall make them! Allans, there is much to do before we handle Monsieur Richards’ cheek.”

However dark the mystery overhanging the Springville Orphans’ Home might have been, nothing indicating it was apparent as de Grandin and I drove through the imposing stone gateway to the spacious grounds. Wide, smoothly kept lawns, dotted here and there with beds of brightly blooming flowers, clean, tastefully arranged buildings of red brick in the Georgian style, and a general air of prosperity, happiness and peace greeted us as we brought our car to a halt before the main building of the home. Within, the youngsters were at chapel, and their clear young voices rose pure and sweet as birdsongs in springtime to the accompaniment of a mellow-toned organ:

“There’s a home for little children

Above the bright blue sky,

Where Jesus reigns in glory,

A home of peace and joy;

No earthly home is like it,

Nor can with it compare . . . ”

We tiptoed into the spacious assembly room, dimly lit through tall, painted windows, and waited at the rear of the hall till the morning exercises were concluded. Right and left de Grandin shot his keen, stocktaking glance, inspecting the rows of neatly clothed little ones in the pews, attractive young female attendants, and the mild-faced, gray-haired lady of matronly appearance who presided at the organ. “Mordieu, Friend Trowbridge,” he muttered in my ear, “truly, this is mysterious. Why should any of the pauvres orphelins voluntarily quit such a place as this?”

“S-s-sh!” I cut him off. His habit of talking in and out of season, whether at a funeral, a wedding or other religious service, had annoyed me more than once. As usual, he took the rebuke in good part and favored me with an elfish grin, then fell to studying an elongated figure representing a female saint in one of the stained-glass windows, winking at the beatified lady in a highly irreverent manner.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Mr. Gervaise greeted us as the home’s inmates filed past us, two by two. “Everything is arranged for your inspection. The children will be brought to you in my office as soon as you are ready for them. Mrs. Martin”—he turned with a smile to the white-haired organist who had joined us—“these are Dr. de Grandin and Dr. Trowbridge. They are going to inspect the children for diphtheria immunity this morning.”

To us he added: “Mrs. Martin is our matron. Next to myself she has entire charge of the home. We call her ‘Mother Martin,’ and all our little ones love her as though she were really their own mother.”