"Varley, the great London surgeon, sure! Say, father, it's a hundred to
one she'd take him, if--"

There was a curious look in Father Bourassa's face, a cloud in his eyes.
He sighed. "London, it is ver' far away," he remarked obliquely.

"What's to that? If she is with the right man, near or far is nothing."

"So far--from home," said the priest reflectively, but his eyes furtively
watched the other's face.

"But home's where man and wife are."

The priest now looked him straight in the eyes. "Then, as you say, she
will not marry M'sieu' Varley--hein?"

The humour died out of Finden's face. His eyes met the priest's eyes
steadily. "Did I say that? Then my tongue wasn't making a fool of me,
after all. How did you guess I knew--everything, father?"

"A priest knows many t'ings--so."

There was a moment of gloom, then the Irishman brightened. He came
straight to the heart of the mystery around which they had been
maneuvering. "Have you seen her husband--Meydon--this year? It isn't
his usual time to come yet."

Father Bourassa's eyes drew those of his friend into, the light of a new
understanding and revelation. They understood and trusted each other.