"No, no—good Lord!" exclaimed Henry Bliss. "I mean—"
"I am telling you," interrupted Father Anton mildly. "He has been forever at that since he was a boy, and then there are the clay dolls for the children, of which there would be very many, at least a hundred."
"A hundred! A hundred clay dolls by the man who did this!" shouted Henry Bliss eagerly. "And do you mean to say you never realised—oh, good Lord! Where are they?"
Father Anton's eyebrows went up in almost pitying astonishment.
"But, monsieur," he said patiently, "where would they be? They do not last long; and, even if the children did not break them almost immediately, they would soon crumble to pieces like their own mud pies."
"Mud!" Henry Bliss bent quickly over the beacon again. "Yes, so it is! It is mostly mud. It is unbelievable! The man did not even have modelling clay to work with!" He swung again on the curé. "Well, where is this Jean Laparde? I want to see him at once!"
Myrna's laugh rippled suddenly through the room.
"Dad—don't get so excited. Your Jean Laparde won't run away. He's out fishing now, but he said he would come out here this morning."
"Out fishing—come out here this morning?" repeated her father, staring at her. "How do you know?"
Myrna shook her finger at him in playful severity.