“Now, Monsignor, I have some influence in New York, as you may possibly know. Will you admit that I can do much for or against you? Drop your mask, therefore, and tell me frankly just what has induced Mrs. Hawley-Crowles to unite with your Church.”
The man knew he was pitting his own against a master mind. He hesitated and weighed well his words before replying. “Madam,” said he at length, with a note of reproach, “you misjudge the lady, the Church, and me, its humble servant. The latter require no defense. As for Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, I speak truly when I say that doubtless she has been greatly influenced by love for her late husband.”
“What!” The Beaubien half rose from her chair. “Jim Crowles––that raw, Irish boob, who was holding down a job on the police force until Ames found he could make a convenient 88 tool of him! The man who was Gannette’s cat’s-paw in the Fall River franchise steal! Now, Monsignor, would you have me believe you devoid of all sense?”
“But,” ejaculated the man, now becoming exasperated, and for the moment so losing his self-control as to make wretched use of his facts, “she is erecting an altar in Holy Saints as a memorial to him!”
“Heavens above!” The Beaubien sank back limp.
Monsignor Lafelle again made as if to rise. He felt that he was guilty of a miserable faux pas. “Madam, I regret that I must be leaving. But the hour––”
“Stay, Monsignor!” The Beaubien roused up and laid a detaining hand upon his arm. “Our versatile friend, what other projects has she in hand? What is she planning for her young ward?”
“Why, really, I can not say––beyond the fact that the girl is to be introduced to society this winter.”
“Humph! Going to make a try for the Ames set?”
“That, I believe, Madam, would be useless without your aid.”