Romayne’s weary eyes brightened faintly. In his desolate position, Father Benwell was the one friend on whom he could rely. Penrose was far away; the Lorings had helped to keep him deceived; Major Hynd had openly pitied and despised him as a victim to priestcraft.
“Can you go with me at any time?” he asked. “Have you no duties that keep you in England?”
“My duties, Romayne, are already confided to other hands.”
“Then you have foreseen this?”
“I have thought it possible. Your journey may be long, or it may be short—you shall not go away alone.”
“I can think of nothing yet; my mind is a blank,” Romayne confessed sadly. “I don’t know where I shall go.”
“I know where you ought to go—and where you will go,” said Father Benwell, emphatically.
“Where?”
“To Rome.”
Romayne understood the true meaning of that brief reply. A vague sense of dismay began to rise in his mind. While he was still tortured by doubt, it seemed as if Father Benwell had, by some inscrutable process of prevision, planned out his future beforehand. Had the priest foreseen events?