The story was skillfully written. No one had "remembered," or at least influence had been able to suppress unpleasant comment. But for the Bishop the mere juxtaposition of words was enough. In fancy he was back in the Seminary at Rome where he had first met Donald Murray. He saw the tall young Englishman at his desk, in front of him the portrait of a charming child.
"My niece," he had said. "She's a winsome little thing. I miss her sorely."
He recalled, too, how someone had related the romance of Edgar Atheson, who had later become Grand Duke of Ecknor. Donald Murray had been strangely silent, he remembered. And—yes, it was just after that that the picture had disappeared from his desk. "It is best," had been Donald Murray's only comment.
The Bishop remembered now. And he knew why Monsignore had looked so surprised and reproachful when asked to give his "full" confidence regarding Ruth Atheson. He understood, now, the meaning of the quiet, "My Lord, there are some things I cannot discuss even with you."
The Bishop bowed his head. "Blind, blind," he murmured, "to have known so much, to have understood so little. Can you ever forgive me, my friend?"
CHAPTER XXI
THE BECKONING HAND
The autumn tints were full on the trees in Sihasset, but the air was still balmy enough to make the veranda of Father Murray's residence far more pleasant than indoors. The Pastor had returned. Pipe in hand, wearing his comfortable old cassock, and with a smile of ineffable peace on his face, he sat chatting with Saunders. The detective was evidently as pleased as Father Murray. He was leaning on "Old Hickory" and puffing at a cigar, with contentment in every line of his countenance.
"No job I ever did, Father, gave me more satisfaction than this one," he was saying. "It was well worth while, even though I'll have to go out now and look for another one."