"The air seems even fresher there than here," he said; and she went off, and left him and her mother together.
For a few minutes they talked about the weather, the sea, and the people about them, as two slight acquaintances would naturally do; but then, when there had been a momentary pause, Father Paul startled Mrs. Costello, by saying,
"Last night, madam, you told me of persons I had not heard of for years—this morning, strangely enough, I have met with a person of whom you probably know something—or knew something formerly."
"I?" she answered. "Impossible! I know no one in France."
"This is not a Frenchman. He is named Bailey, an American, I believe."
"Bailey?" Mrs. Costello repeated, terrified. "Surely he is not here?"
"There is a man of that name here—a miserable ruined gambler, who says that he knows Moose Island, and once travelled in Europe with a party of Indians."
"And what is he doing now?"
"Nothing. He is the most wretched, squalid object you can imagine. He came to me this morning to ask for the loan of a few francs. He had not even the honesty to beg without some pretence of an intention to pay."