'I must be certain'—said Manisty, in a low voice,—'or in torment! I prefer the certainty.'
His face darkened. In its frowning disorganisation his companion saw for the first time a man hitherto unknown to him, a man who spoke with the dignity, the concentration, the simplicity of true passion.
Dignity! The priest recalled the voice, the looks of Eleanor Burgoyne. Not a word for her—not a thought! His old heart began to shrink from his visitor, from his own scheme.
'Then how do you explain the young lady's disappearance?' he asked, after a pause.
Manisty laughed. But the note was bitter.
'Father!—I shall make her explain it herself.'
'She is not alone?'
'No—my cousin Mrs. Burgoyne is with her.'
Benecke observed him, appreciated the stiffening of the massive shoulders.
'I heard from some friends in Rome,' said the priest, after a moment—'distressing accounts of Mrs. Burgoyne's health.'