There is no evidence so credible as
that of the eyesight."
Father Rogan moved about the room, and donned a soft black hat.
Buttoning his coat to his throat, he laid his hand on the doorknob.
"Let us walk," he said.
The two went out upon the street. The priest turned his face down it,
and Lorison walked with him through a squalid district, where the
houses loomed, awry and desolate-looking, high above them. Presently
they turned into a less dismal side street, where the houses were
smaller, and, though hinting of the most meagre comfort, lacked the
concentrated wretchedness of the more populous byways.
At a segregated, two-story house Father Rogan halted, and mounted the
steps with the confidence of a familiar visitor. He ushered Lorison
into a narrow hallway, faintly lighted by a cobwebbed hanging lamp.
Almost immediately a door to the right opened and a dingy Irishwoman
protruded her head.
"Good evening to ye, Mistress Geehan," said the priest, unconsciously,
it seemed, falling into a delicately flavoured brogue. "And is it
yourself can tell me if Norah has gone out again, the night, maybe?"
"Oh, it's yer blissid riverence! Sure and I can tell ye the same.
The purty darlin' wint out, as usual, but a bit later. And she says:
'Mother Geehan,' says she, 'it's me last noight out, praise the
saints, this noight is!' And, oh, yer riverence, the swate, beautiful
drame of a dress she had this toime! White satin and silk and
ribbons, and lace about the neck and arrums--'twas a sin, yer
reverence, the gold was spint upon it.
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