They came into a more pretentious street, where trade, it could be surmised, flourished by day. And again the priest paused; this time before a lofty building whose great doors and windows in the lowest floors were carefully shuttered and barred. Its higher apertures were dark, save in the third story, the windows of which were brilliantly lighted. Lorison’s ear caught a distant, regular, pleasing thrumming, as of music above. They stood at an angle of the building. Up, along the side nearest them, mounted an iron stairway. At its top was an upright, illuminated parallelogram. Father Rogan had stopped, and stood musing.
“I will say this much,” he remarked thoughtfully, “I believe you to be a better man than you think yourself to be, and a better than I thought some hours ago. But do not take this”—he added, with a smile—“as much praise. I promised you a possi-
