Dicky was nearest to the priest as he finished speaking and turned
to the boys. The old man gave the young one a searching scrutiny,
up to that time Dicky had not spoken.
"You, too, are American?" he asked, as if doubtful that so perfect
a disguise could have been so hurriedly assumed.
Dicky's answer was short, and made in a tone and with an accent that
made the good Father look still more sharply into the boy's eyes.
"No one would dream it," he murmured. "You are very like the poor
dead woman's son---so like that the resemblance is startling. It
is no doubt the clothes that make me note it."
"Not altogether," interposed one of the old ladies. "His voice is
strangely like that of Franois. I know, for Francois frequently
worked here for us until they took him away. If the American would
limp as Franois limped, most folk would take him for Franois, surely."
Franois, it was explained, had been hurt when a boy of twelve, and
while not seriously crippled, always walked with a slight limp in the
right leg.
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