She smiled back at him fearlessly.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“And will you go?”
“Of course,” she answered heartily. “Did a woman ever refuse to listen to a secret?”
An hour later, she joined him in the hall. Brock stared at her approvingly. Her dark green cloth gown was the work of a tailor of sorts; the plumes of her wide hat made an admirable setting for her halo of ruddy hair. And Nancy returned the approval in full measure. Few men were better to look upon than was Reginald Brock, tall and supple, his well-set head thatched with crisp brown hair and lighted with those merry, clear gray eyes. No sinister thought had ever left its line on Brock’s honest, manly face.
“Come, then,” he said, as he opened the door. “You are in my hands, this afternoon.”
He led the way to the Lower Town. Then, leaving Notre Dame des Victoires far behind them, they passed the custom house, crossed to the Louise Embankment and, rounding the angle by the immigration sheds, came out on the end of the Commissioners’ Wharf.
“There!” Brock said triumphantly. “What do you think of this?”
Nancy drew a long breath of sheer delight.
“One can’t think; one can only feel,” she said slowly.