"I came to you to ask that very question, Father," said
Farnsworth.
"And what do I know? Surely, my son, you see how utterly helpless
an old priest is against all you British. And besides--"
"Father Beret," Farnsworth huskily interrupted, "is there a place
that you know of anywhere in which Miss Roussillon could be
hidden, if--"
"My dear son."
"But, Father, I mean it."
"Mean what? Pardon an old man's slow understanding. What are you
talking about, my son?"
Father Beret glanced furtively about, then quickly stepped through
the doorway, walked entirely around the house and came in again
before Farnsworth could respond. Once more seated on his stool he
added interrogatively:
"Did you think you heard something moving outside?"
"No."
"You were saying something when I went out. Pardon my
interruption."
Farnsworth gave the priest a searching and not wholly confiding
look.
"You did not interrupt me, Father Beret. I was not speaking. Why
are you so watchful? Are you afraid of eavesdroppers?"
"You were speaking recklessly. Your words were incendiary:
ardentia verba. My son, you were suggesting a dangerous thing.
Your life would scarcely satisfy the law were you convicted of
insinuating such treason. What if one of your prowling guards had
overheard you? Your neck and mine might feel the halter.
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