him, but seldom any of the older ones. I
got all I know from one of those young chaps--the one I told you I met
on the train. He almost cried over the affair."

"It's sad enough to make any friend cry over it," said Mark; "but
somehow it makes the man seem bigger to me."

"True." Saunders was clearly the Padre's admirer. "They say he had
the best pulpit in London before he went over to the Catholics--big
salary, and all that. Then he had to begin all over again as a layman.
Went to school, by gosh!--dead game! But when they made him a priest
he jumped right to the front. His last money went into the college he
built. He has only five hundred a year to live on now. You know,
Griffin, if it wasn't for the rotten way the Church treated him, I
honestly believe the Padre could put some religion into me. He's a
power here already. Look at the way he makes that girl at Killimaga
work."

It seemed to Mark that the detective was beginning to fence again.

"She's a stranger, isn't she?" he asked.

The detective half closed his eyes. "How do you know?"

"You told me so."

Saunders blew a thoughtful smoke ring.

"I guess I did. You know, of course, Killimaga was rented to her about
the time Padre came here. The old Irishman who built it, died, and his
family went over to your country to buy a title for their only
daughter. The girl up there must be a rich one to rent such an estate;
and, Griffin, that old Irishman had taste, believe me. His gardens are
a wonder. Ever see them?"

"No."

"Try to; they're worth while. This girl spends her money and herself
on the Padre's charities. He directs, and she does things for the mill
people. By gad, Griffin, they just love her! I passed her just now
going into O'Leary's. The old man was crushed at the mill, and died
yesterday. It's dollars to doughnuts she takes care of that family all
winter. Where she gets the money is beyond me."

"You Americans are all rich," said Mark. "You English think we are,
but you only see the gang that goes over to the other side every
summer. There's one Atheson family in America worth millions, but I
know that crowd; she doesn't belong to it. I don't know what Atheson
family she does belong to. She's a mystery, with her Killimaga and her
money and her veil."

"Why," said Mark, "every woman wears a veil--the sun, you know."

"Yes; the sun, and the rain, and the shade, and _every_ kind of
weather!"

The detective's f