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While I was speaking Father Dan was shuffling his feet and plucking at
his shabby cassock, and as soon as I had finished he flashed out on me
with an anger I had never seen in his face or heard in his voice before.
"I know who it is," he said. "It's Martin Conrad."
I was so startled by this that I was beginning to ask how he knew, when
he cried:
"Never mind how I know. Perhaps you think an old priest has no eyes for
anything but his breviary, eh? It's young Martin, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"The wretch, the rascal, the scoundrel! If he ever dares to come to this
house again, I'll slam the door in his face."
I knew he loved Martin almost as much as I did, so I paid no heed to the
names he was calling him, but I tried to say that I alone had been to
blame, and that Martin had done nothing.
"Don't tell me he has done nothing," cried Father Dan. "I know what he
has done He has told you he loves you, hasn't he?"
"No."
"He has been colloguing with you, then, and getting you to say things?"
"Never.


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