“Not the slightest.”
For a moment he sat with head bowed, one hand pressed to his forehead. The priest waited, saying nothing.
“I have come to you, Father Cruse, because I need a man's help—not a priest's—a MAN'S. If I have made no mistake, you are one.”
The fine white fingers of the priest were rising and falling ever so slightly on the velvet arm of the chair on which his hand rested, a compound gesture showing that both his brain and his hand were at his listener's service.
“Go on,” he said gently and firmly. “As priest or man, Mr. O'Day, I am ready.”
Felix paused; the priest bent his head in closer attention. He was accustomed to halting confessions, and ready with a prompting word if the sinner faltered.
“It is about my wife.”
The words seemed to choke him, as if the grip of a long-held silence had not yet quite relaxed its hold.
“Not ill, I hope?”
“No, she is not ill.”