“You have, Garan? You have? Out with it, my boy.”
“Do you remember the time when Paddy Flannagan was accused of murdering his old grandmother for the sake of the money in her stocking?” continued Bourke, in the same half absent tone, and lapsing gradually into brogue. “He was convicted, you know, and the whole town was set on him, and we two boys were the worst of the lot. Do you remember how we used to hoot under his jail window at night? And then, quite by accident, at the last minute, two days before he was going to be hanged, you discovered the man that had committed the murder, and you ran as fast as your legs could carry you to save Paddy, shouting all the way,—and that it was the happiest day of your life?”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the priest, his face aglow. Bourke had thrown himself back in his chair, his eyes dwelling on his old friend with a smile of affectionate satisfaction.
“It’s a grand thing to save a human life, isn’t it, Tim?”
“It is, indeed; the grandest, next to saving an immortal soul.”
“I’m going to give you a chance to do both,—the soul of one woman and the life of another.”
“Garan, Garan, what do you mean?”
“Just let me tell you a few things first, a few things you don’t know already.” He gave a concise but picturesque and thrilling account of Patience’s life and of her trial. As he repeated Honora’s testimony, the priest, who had followed his recital with profound interest, leaned forward with sombre brows.
“That woman lied,” concluded Bourke, abruptly.
“I’m afraid so. I’m afraid so.”