“Not personally, but, unless I am very much mistaken, that is Sir Felix O'Day.”
“Ye ain't mistaken, you're dead right—all but the 'Sir.' That's somethin' new to me. It's MR. Felix O'Day around here, and there ain't a finer nor a better. What do ye know about him?” Her voice had softened and a slight shade of anxiety had crept into it. John craned his head to hear the better.
“Nothing to his discredit. He has had a lot of trouble—terrible trouble—more than anybody I know. I heard he had gone to Australia. I see now that he came to New York. Well, upon my soul, Sir Felix living over an express office!”
He handed her a bill, waited until John had fished up the change from the trousers pocket, repeated, in an absent-minded way: “Sir Felix living here! Good God! What next?” and, beckoning to the driver, stepped inside the hansom and drove off.
Kitty looked at her husband, her color coming and going. “What did I tell ye, John, dear? And ye wouldn't believe a word of it.”
John returned Kitty's look. He, too, was trying to grasp the full meaning of the announcement. “Are ye going to tell him ye know, Kitty?” Neither of them had the slightest doubt of its truth.
“No, I ain't,” she flashed back. “Not a word—nor nobody else. When Mr. Felix O'Day gits ready to tell us, he will.”
“Will ye tell Father Cruse?” he persisted.
“I don't know that I will. I'll have to think it over. And now, John, remember!—not a word of this to any livin' soul. Do ye promise?”
“I do.” He hesitated, another question struggling to his lips, and then added: “What's up wid him, do ye think, Kitty?”