"I don' know."
"Anybody know?"
"I guess they don't."
"Well, what—that is, dear me! You don't say so! I mean, where'd he get you?"
"Got me to the Foundlings. Lappo"—speaking in the way of quiet conversation—"Lappo had fits."
"Yes, yes. Ga—"
"Gard Windham."
Father Andrew fell to patting one fat hand on the back of the other, which gripped the umbrella. It was his habit to pat one hand softly over the other whenever he was giving himself advice, or found himself driven to some conclusion which could not be soothed or softened by any more logical method. "Yes, yes. Dear me!" A life probably of unsanctioned origin. It was apt to be the reason for the closed door and the lost key.
They came to the door in the brick wall, and went from the street that murmured sadly with the rain, into the little paved court that murmured sadly with the rain.