From looking at the altar he looked at the chairs, and the small oblong pieces of pasteboard fastened to their backs. He looked down at the piece which denoted the owner of the chair in which he was sitting. And then he found himself staring at it, while his heart leaped and thumped madly. On the pasteboard four words were written,—The Duchessa di Donatello.
He gazed at the words hardly able to believe the sight of his own eyes. What odd coincidence, what odd impulse had brought him to her very chair? It was extraordinary, unbelievable almost. And then another thought flashed into his brain, making his heart stand still.
A door to the left opened, and a priest came out. He looked momentarily at Antony, then went into the sanctuary, genuflected, took the covered chalice from the altar, genuflected again, and went back into the sacristy, leaving the door partly open.
Antony got suddenly to his feet. He went towards the sacristy. The priest, hearing the sound of steps, opened the door wide.
“Excuse me,” said Antony, “but can you tell me where Woodleigh is?” His Irish brogue was forgotten.
“Certainly,” replied the priest. “It is about two miles from here, inland.” He looked rather curiously at the man, who, though labourer by his dress, yet spoke in an obviously refined voice. He waited, perhaps expecting some further question.
“That was all I wanted to know,” said Antony. “Thank you.” He turned back into the church.
Father Dormer looked after him. There was a puzzled look in his eye.
Antony came out of the church and into the sunlight. He called to Josephus, who was busy with the investigation of a distant smithy, and turned up the street, walking rather quickly.