He called the tall, strong girl "little Alice," and so she seemed to him. He could not, without direct effort, think of her as a magnificently maturing woman. She had always been his spoiled pet child, perversely set against the Holy Church, but dear to him nevertheless.
"I came to you to ask that very question, Father," said Farnsworth.
"And what do I know? Surely, my son, you see how utterly helpless an old priest is against all you British. And besides—"
"Father Beret," Farnsworth huskily interrupted, "is there a place that you know of anywhere in which Miss Roussillon could be hidden, if—"
"My dear son."
"But, Father, I mean it."
"Mean what? Pardon an old man's slow understanding. What are you talking about, my son?"
Father Beret glanced furtively about, then quickly stepped through the doorway, walked entirely around the house and came in again before Farnsworth could respond. Once more seated on his stool he added interrogatively:
"Did you think you heard something moving outside?"
"No."