“Oh, you mustn't judge her by her quietness, canon. You don't know her character. She's real stubborn when her mind's made up. But I'll be as stubborn as she is—I'll take her back to America—I'll never spend another penny——”
“And as for Mr. Storm,” continued the canon, “I'll make everything smooth in that quarter. You mustn't think too much about the unhappy sermon—a little youthful esprit fort—we all go through it, you know.”
When Mrs. Macrae had gone, he rang twice for Mr. Golightly and said, “Tell Mr. Storm to come down to me immediately.”
“With pleasure, sir,” said the little man; and then he hesitated.
“What is it?” said the canon, adjusting his glasses.
“I have never told you, sir, how I found him the night you sent me to the hospital.”
“Well, how?”
“On his knees to a Catholic priest who was visiting a patient.”
The canon's glasses fell from his eyes and his broad face broke into strange smiles.
“I thought the Sorceress of Rome was at the bottom of it,” he said. “His uncle shall know of this, and unless I am sadly deceived—but fetch him down.”