She sat herself upon the bed. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent. They sat in the windowed booth at the restaurant across from each other. They were silent for a time. "Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. ” It was certain that he was not there. " "Ah!" ejaculated the widow, hiding her face.
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