"Marie-Louise," he said, as they reached the door, "this is the lady and gentleman who are to take the house, and—"
"Oh, but I think we have seen each other before," interposed Myrna graciously. "Was it not you, Marie-Louise, who passed us on the bridge yesterday afternoon?"
Marie-Louise's dark eyes, deep, fearless, met the grey ones—and dropped modestly.
"Yes, mademoiselle," she said.
"Certainly!" said Henry Bliss pleasantly. "I remember you too, and—ah!" With a sudden step, quite forgetting the amenities due his daughter, he brushed by her into the room, and stooped over the clay figure of the beacon. He picked it up, looked at it in a sort of startled incredulity, as though he could not believe his eyes; then, setting it down, went to the window, threw up the shade for better light, and returned to the clay figure. And then, after a moment, he began to mutter excitedly. "Yes—undoubtedly—of the flower of the French school—Demaurais, Lestrange, Pitot—eh?—which? And—yes—here—within a day or so—it is quite fresh!" He rushed back to the doorway to Father Anton. "Who has been in the village recently?"—his words were coming with a rush, he had the priest by the shoulders and was unconsciously shaking him. "Was it a man with long black hair over his coat collar and a beak nose? Was it a little short man who always jerks his head as he talks? Or was it a big fellow, very fat, and, yes, if it were Pitot he would probably be drunk? Quick! Which one was it?"
Father Anton, jaw dropped, dumb with amazement, could only shake his head. This American! Had he gone suddenly mad?
"Good heavens, dad, what is the matter?" Myrna cried out.
He paid no attention to her.
"You, then!"—he whirled on Marie-Louise, grasping her arm fiercely. "Who has been here?"
"But—but, m'sieu," stammered Marie-Louise, shrinking back in affright, "no one has been here."