“No. I knew you would say so. Now you have forfeited your one guess,” she responded smilingly, yet with an odd little tugging at her heart, as she recalled the face of St. Jacques, as he had laid the little silver image into her outstretched palm.
“Make her your patron saint as well,” he had said briefly. “The time may come when I shall need the prayers of her name-child to help me at her shrine.”
And Nancy, looking straight into his dark eyes, had given the promise that he asked.
But now, with full intention, she was seeking to drive St. Jacques from her mind.
“You don’t ask about our guest,” she added.
“No.” Brock buttered his bread with calm deliberation. “I knew you would tell me, when you were ready.”
She fell into the trap laid by his apparent indifference.
“I am ready now. It is an old friend of ours from New York, Mr. Joseph Churchill.”
“So glad he is an old friend,” Brock responded coolly.
“Why?”