“Nothing so bold,” I cried. “You might without impropriety have seen every one of my letters, and seen in them no more than a seaman's log.”
“A seaman's log!” said he, smiling faintly and rubbing his massive chin; “nothing would give the lady more delight, I am sure. A seaman's log! And I might have seen them without impropriety, might I? That I'll swear was what her ladyship took very good care to obviate. Come now, did she not caution thee against telling me of this correspondence?”
I confessed it was so; that the lady naturally feared she might be made the subject of light talk, and I had promised that in that respect she should suffer nothing for her kindly interest in a countryman.
The priest laughed consumedly at this.
“Interest in her countryman!” said he. “Oh, lad, wilt be the death of me for thy unexpected spots of innocence.”
“And as to that,” I said, “you must have had a sort of correspondence with her yourself.”
“I!” said he. “Comment!”
“To be quite frank with you,” said I, “it has been the cause of some vexatious thoughts to me that the letter I carried to the Prince was directed in Miss Walkinshaw's hand of write, and as Buhot informed me, it was the same letter that was to wile his Royal Highness to his fate in the Rue des Reservoirs.” Father Hamilton groaned, as he did at any time the terrible affair was mentioned.
“It is true, Paul, quite true,” said he, “but the letter was a forgery. I'll give the lady the credit to say she never had a hand in it.”
“I am glad to hear that, for it removes some perplexities that have troubled me for a while back.”