“Varley, the great London surgeon, sure! Say, father, it’s a hundred to one she’d take him if—”
There was a curious look in Father Bourassa’s face, a cloud in his eyes. He sighed. “London, it is ver’ far away,” he remarked, obliquely.
“What’s to that? If she is with the right man, near or far is nothing.”
“So far—from home,” said the priest, reflectively, but his eyes furtively watched the other’s face.
“But home’s where man and wife are.”
The priest now looked him straight in the eyes. “Then, as you say, she will not marry M’sieu’ Varley—hein?”
The humor died out of Finden’s face. His eyes met the priest’s eyes steadily. “Did I say that? Then my tongue wasn’t making a fool of me, after all. How did you guess I knew—everything, father?”
“A priest knows many t’ings—so.”
There was a moment of gloom, then the Irishman brightened. He came straight to the heart of the mystery around which they had been manœuvring. “Have you seen her husband—Meydon—this year? It isn’t his usual time to come yet.”
Father Bourassa’s eyes drew those of his friend into the light of a new understanding and revelation. They understood and trusted each other.