As she approached it, she was thinking of Eleanor and the future, and her eyes were absently bent on the ground.
But a scent familiar and yet strange distracted her. Suddenly, on the path in front of the seat, she saw a still burning cigarette, and on the seat a book lying.
She stopped short; then sank upon the seat, her eyes fixed upon the book.
It was a yellow-bound French novel, and on the outside was written in a hand she knew, a name that startled every pulse in her young body.
His book? And that cigarette? Father Benecke neither smoked nor did he read French novels.
Beyond the seat the path branched, upwards to the Palazzo, and downwards to the river. She rose and looked eagerly over its steep edge into the medley of rock and tree below. She saw nothing, but it seemed to her that in the distance she heard voices talking—receding.
They had left the seat only just in time to escape her. Mr. Manisty had forgotten his book! Careless and hasty—how well she knew the trait! But he would miss it—he would come back.
She stood up and tried to collect her thoughts. If he was here, he was with
Father Benecke. So the priest had betrayed the secret he had promised Mrs.
Burgoyne to keep?
No, no!—that was impossible! It was chance—unkind, unfriendly chance.
And yet?—as she bit her lip in fear or bewilderment, her heart was rising like the Paglia after the storm—swelling, thundering within her.