I WAS by no means sorry that Father Ambrose preferred to see Volna alone. It was her influence, not mine, which would have any effect upon him; and it was certain she would be able to exert that influence better alone than if I were present at the interview.
I judged, too, that the priest was shrewd enough to see the wisdom of hearing our story from us separately. I had already told him one falsehood and Volna had acquiesced in it; so that we could not blame him for using any caution which his suspicions might prompt.
That she would win him round to her side, I had little doubt. My faith in her made me very confident. But what would he do then? What could he do? How could he, a mere parish priest, help us to turn our failure into success and get those papers to Cracow?
I had ample time to meditate upon this, for it was more than an hour before he came back to me. He looked exceedingly grave and troubled, and asked me to go to his study. Volna was not there. He took his seat at his writing-table and waved me to one opposite to him; and for a moment or two he said nothing.
I felt very uncomfortable. Somewhat as I used to feel in the old Corpus days when carpeted by the Head. He pressed his finger tips together, and when he spoke there was a mixture of censure and kindness in his tone.
“Mr. Anstruther, I don’t know how you regard the falsehood you told me yesterday and induced my friend’s child to act?”
“It was on the impulse of the moment, and I am compelled to admit it was only one of many I have had to tell in the last two days. But don’t think it is my habit to lie.”
“Your name is really Robert Anstruther.”
“Yes. But I can give you no proof. My papers were taken——”
He interrupted with a wave of the hand. “I know. I am aware that I must take your word.”