When service was over, he made his way down the aisle, waited until the last of the worshippers had had their final word with their priest, and, with a respectful bend of the head in recognition, followed Father Cruse into the sacristy.
“You remember me?” he said in a hoarse, constrained voice when the priest turned and faced him.
“Yes, you are Mr. O'Day—Kitty Cleary's friend, and I need not tell you how glad I am to see you,” and he held out a cordial hand.
“I have come as I promised you I would. Can you give me half an hour?”
“With the greatest pleasure. My duties are over just as soon as I put these vestments away. But I am sorry you came to-night, for you have witnessed a most distressing sight.”
Felix looked at him steadily. “Do such things happen often?” he asked, his voice breaking.
“Everything happens here, Mr. O'Day,” replied the priest gravely; “incredible things. We once found a baby a month old in the gallery. We baptized him and he is now one of our choir-boys. But, forgive me,” he added with a smile, “such sights are best forgotten and may not interest you.” He was studying his visitor as a doctor does a patient, trying to discover the seat of the disease. That Felix was not the same man he had met the night at Kitty's was apparent; then he had been merely a man with a sorrow, now he seemed laboring under a weight too heavy to bear.
Felix drew back his shoulders as if to brace himself the better and said: “Can we talk here?”
“Yes, and with absolute privacy and freedom. Take this chair; I will sit beside you.” It was the voice of the father confessor now, encouraging the unburdening of a soul.
Felix glanced first around the simple room, with its quiet and seclusion, then stepped back and closed the sacristy door, saying, as he took his seat: “There is no need, I suppose, of locking it?”