Kitty waited until the sound of O'Day's footsteps told her that he had reached the top of the stairs and then turned to the priest. “Well, what do ye think of him? Have I told ye too much? Did ye ever know the beat of a man like that, livin' in a place like this and eatin' at my table, and never a word of complaint out o' him, and everybody lovin' him the moment they clap their two eyes on him?”
The priest made no immediate answer. For some seconds he gazed into the fire, then looked at John as if about to seek some further enlightenment, but changing his mind faced Kitty. “Is his mail sent here?”
“What? His letters?”
“Yes.”
“He don't have any—not one since he's been wid us.”
“Anybody come to see him?”
“Niver a soul.”
The priest ruminated for a moment more, and then said slowly, as if his mind were made up: “It does not matter; somebody or something has hurt him, and he has gone off to die by himself. In the old days such men sought the monasteries; to-day they try to lose themselves in the crowd.”
Again he ruminated, the delicate antennae of his hands meeting each other at the tips.
“A most extraordinary case,” he said at last. “No malice, no bitterness—yet eating his heart out. Pitiful, really; and the worst thing about it is that you can't help him, for his secret will die with him. Bring him to me sometime, and let me know before you come so I may be at home.”