e 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?"

"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."

The priest leaned forward, a startled look on his face. "You surely
don't mean she is dead?"

O'Day did not answer.

Father Cruse settled back into the depths of his chair. "She has left
you, then," he said in a conclusive tone.

"Yes--a year ago."

He stopped, started to speak, and, with a baffled gesture, said: "No,
you might better have it all. It is the only way you will understand; I
will begin at the beginning."

The priest laid his hand soothingly on O'Day's wrist. "Take your time. I
have nothing else to do except to listen and--help you if I can."

The touch of the priest had steadied him. "Thank you, Father," he said
simply, and went on.

"A year ago, as I have said, my wife left me and went off with a man
named Dalton. Later I learned she was here, and I came over to see what
I could do to help her."

Father Cruse raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Yes, just that--to help her when she needed help, for I kne