The good man was helpless; so I went to the rescue. “It is time for me to go. You can discuss this when I have left.”
“Wait a moment. Two things I am certain of. You two have arranged to do something that affects me and you won’t tell me; and you, Father, have said something about me which has changed Mr. Anstruther. I won’t stand that. I won’t let him go as if we were just how-d’ye-do—and—good-bye acquaintances. He has saved me from prison, and I just can’t do it.”
The embarrassment was becoming almost painful. “I should never think of you as a mere acquaintance; but please let me go,” I said.
“Yes. You may go. Good-bye—but don’t attempt to help me any more if you do go in that way. I will not let either of you help me, if you mean to deceive me;” and with fingers that trembled she took off the head-dress and laid aside her apron. “If you will not tell me, I will go by myself and take my chance.”
“My dear child,” protested the priest.
“I will. I will. My mind is made up.”
“You had better tell her,” I said to the priest then.
She smiled, but through the promise of tears. “You know me, don’t you?”
Father Ambrose then told her the scheme in regard to my arrest and we both enlarged upon the absence of risk to me. She neither acquiesced nor vetoed it. “That’s number one. What is number two? What have you told Mr. Anstruther?”
“You want to rule with a pretty strong iron rod, don’t you?” I said. “But there is nothing to tell that need be told.”