“You will drive me to that church, right away, at once, immediately?” he demanded eagerly.
“I guess so,” I agreed. “What’s the matter now; Indian John been telling you a lot of fairy-tales?"
“Perhaps,” he replied, regarding me with one of his steady, unwinking stares. “Not all fairy-tales are pleasant, you know. Do you recall those of Chaperon Rouge—how do you say it, Red Riding Hood?—and Bluebeard?"
“Huh!” I scoffed; “they’re both as true as any of John’s stories, I’ll bet."
"Undoubtlessly," he agreed with a quick nod. "The story of Bluebeard, for instance, is unfortunately a very true tale indeed. But come, let us hasten; I would see that church tonight, if I may.”
Christ church, the old Swedish place of worship, was a combined demonstration of how firmly adzhewn pine and walnut can resist the ravages of time and how nearly three hundred years of weather can demolish any structure erected by man. Its rough-painted walls and short, firm-based spire shone ghostly and pallid in the early spring moonlight, and the cluster of broken and weather-worn tombstones which staggered up from its unkempt burying ground were like soiled white chicks seeking shelter from a soiled white hen.
Dismounting from my car at the wicket gate of the churchyard, we made our way over the level graves, I in a maze of wonderment, de Grandin with an eagerness almost childish. Occasionally he flashed the beam from his electric torch on some monument of an early settler, bent to decipher the worn inscription, then turned away with a sigh of disappointment..
I paused to light a cigar, but dropped my half-burned match in astonishment as my companion gave vent to a cry of excited pleasure. “Triomphe!” he exclaimed delightedly. “Come and behold, Friend Trowbridge. Thus far your lying friend, the Indian man, has told the truth. Regardez!"
He was standing beside an old, weather-gnawed tombstone, once marble, perhaps, but appearing more like brown sandstone under the ray of his flashlight. Across its upper end was deeply cut the one word :
SARAH
while below the name appeared a verse of half-obliterated doggerel:
Let nonne diſturb her deathleſſe ſleepe
Abote ye tombe wilde garlick keepe
For if ſhee wake much woe will boaſt
Prayſe Faither, Sonne & Holie Goaſt.
“Did you bring me out here to study the orthographical eccentricities of the early settlers?” I demanded in disgust.
“Ah bah!” he returned. “Let us consult the ecclésiastique. He, perhaps, will ask no fool’s questions."
“No, you’ll do that,” I answered tartly as we knocked at the rectory door.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” de Grandin apologized as the white-haired old minister appeared in answer to our summons, “we do not wish to disturb you thus, but there is a matter of great import on which we would consult you. I would that you tell us what 'you can, if anything, concerning a certain grave in your churchyard. A grave marked ‘Sarah,' if you please."
“Why”—the elderly cleric was plainly taken aback—“I don’t think there is anything I can tell you about it, sir. There is some mention in the early parish records, I believe, of a woman believed to have been a murderess being buried in that grave, but it seems the poor creature was more sinned against than sinning. Several children in the neighborhood
