He picked up a sheet of paper and played with it with a suggestion of nervousness. “I am tempted to tell you a story, a chapter of my life, Mr. Anstruther. I was not originally intended for the priesthood; but was to have married. I was betrothed, in fact. Then something happened—the result of misunderstanding—I knew afterwards how easily it could have been avoided, but it was not avoided; other influences intervened, and—and so the marriage which took place was not mine; and I am now a priest with just a memory. Does that incline you to any special frankness with me as to your motives in this?”
“You mean with regard to Volna?”
He looked at me again very intently. “You know that she is betrothed?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. She told me her uncle’s plans.”
His look now was more sympathetic and kind than searching; and he sighed. “Ah, you do not know, I see.”
“I am not a child, Father Ambrose.”
“I can say no more. I ought not, perhaps, to have said so much. I am going to deal with you as a man, Mr. Anstruther. Of course all that has occurred in these two days must never be mentioned. The dear child’s future must not be compromised.”
“It will not pass my lips.”
“You and I together can secure her safety; I am going to ask your help. She will remain here until I can get her back safely to Warsaw.”
“I will do anything to secure her safety.”