“Tell me,” she cried to Father Ambrose. “I will know, or——”
“I only told him such facts about you as you had told me,” complied the priest, taking refuge in generalities.
She stood thinking, shooting quick inquiring glances at us in turn.
“I ask you not to insist on anything more than that,” I urged.
A gleam of understanding was in her eyes and a semi-mischievous smile hovering about her lips as she returned: “Who asked that?”
“Bob Garrett,” I declared promptly.
The smile deepened. “What will the police do with him?” she asked Father Ambrose. “Take him to Cracow?”
“More probably to Warsaw,” was the reply; “but as we told you, his friends will see he comes to no harm of any sort. You are quite sure of that, are you not, Mr. Anstruther?”
“I haven’t the faintest doubt of it;” and at this Volna looked quite her happy self.
“I may as well put these on again, then,” she said, and she slipped on the apron and arranged the quaint head-dress. When she looked next at me her face was almost preternaturally grave, except her expressionful eyes.