The stranger linked his fingers together and threw them over his knee, drew it up to his chest caressingly, and said quietly, “Because you DO know.”
The Padre rose to his feet.
“What mean you?” he said, sternly fixing his eyes upon the speaker. Their eyes met. The stranger's were gray and persistent, with hanging corner lids that might have concealed even more purpose than they showed. The Padre's were hollow, open, and the whites slightly brown, as if with tobacco stains. Yet they were the first to turn away.
“I mean,” returned the stranger, with the same practical gravity, “that you know it wouldn't pay me to come here, if I'd killed the baby, unless I wanted you to fix things right with me up there,” pointing skywards, “and get absolution; and I've told you THAT wasn't in my line.”
“Why do you seek me, then?” demanded the Padre, suspiciously.
“Because I reckon I thought a man might be allowed to confess something short of a murder. If you're going to draw the line below that—”
“This is but sacrilegious levity,” interrupted Father Pedro, turning as if to go. But the stranger did not make any movement to detain him.
“Have you implored forgiveness of the father—the man you wronged—before you came here?” asked the priest, lingering.
“Not much. It wouldn't pay if he was living, and he died four years ago.”
“You are sure of that?”