Charred Wood | Page 5

squared--the face of one who would seek and find.
He looked at his companion, clad in a neat-fitting business suit of blue,
his blond hair combed straight back under the carelessly-tilted Alpine,
and felt that the smaller man was one not to be despised. "A man of
brains," thought Mark, as he noted the keen intelligent look from the
blue eyes set in a face that, though somewhat irregular in feature,
bespoke strong determination.
Mentally, the two men were matched. Should they ever be pitted
against each other, it would be impossible for anyone to determine
offhand which would be the victor.
The agent was disposed to be surly during the walk to the hotel, for he
had become suspicious. Why had the fool Englishman done this thing?
Did he know or suspect that the supposed book agent was really a
detective? Did he know the woman? Was he in her confidence? How
had she disappeared so quickly?
Saunders found it difficult to keep up even a semblance of interest in
the conversation, for Mark gave him little time to think. He plied him
with friendly questions until the detective wondered if his companion
were a fool, or someone "on the inside." He wished that Mark would
stop his chattering long enough to let him do the questioning. But Mark
went right on.
"How's the book trade? Bad, I'll wager, so far from town. Why aren't
you working?"
Saunders had to think quickly.
"Oh, I took an afternoon off; business has off days, you know."
"Of course. Any success this morning?"

"One order. Took me a month to get it--from the Padre."
"Ah!"
Mark gave the word the English sound, which convinced the detective
that the speaker really was a fool who had stumbled into an affair he
knew nothing about. But Mark kept up his questioning.
"Did you get to talk much with the Padre? You know, he interests me.
By the way, why do you call him by that Spanish name?"
"Oh, I got into the habit in the Philippines; that's what they call a priest
there. I was a soldier, you know. Did you ever meet him?"
"No; but I'd like to."
"Perhaps I could introduce you." They were walking through the
village now, and Saunders glanced toward the rectory. "There he is."
The chance to get away attracted Saunders; and nothing suited Mark
better than to meet the priest at that very time.
"Certainly," he said; "I'd be glad if you introduced me. I'll stop only a
moment, and then go on to the hotel with you."
But this did not suit Saunders.
"Oh, no; you must talk to the Padre. He's your kind. You'll like him. I
can't wait, though, so I'll have to leave you there."
"By the way," Mark went on with his questioning, "isn't the Padre
rather--well, old--to be in such a small and out-of-the-way place? You
know I rather thought that, in his church, priests as old as he were in
the larger parishes."
"Why, you couldn't have been listening much to gossip since you came
down here--not very much," said Saunders. "The Padre is here by
choice--but only partially by choice."

"By choice, but only partially by choice?" Mark was curious by this
time. "I don't quite understand."
Saunders smiled knowingly, and dropped his voice.
"It's like this," he whispered. "The Padre was a big man in the city six
months ago. He was what they call a vicar general--next job to the
bishop, you know. He was a great friend of the old Bishop who died
three months before the Padre came here. A new Bishop came--"
"'Who knew not Joseph'?"
But the Scripture was lost on the agent.
"His name is not Joseph," he answered solemnly, "but Donald, Donald
Murray. I read it on the book order I got."
"Donald! Funny name for a Catholic," commented Mark. "It sounds
Presbyterian."
"That's what it is," said Saunders quickly. "The Padre is a convert to the
Catholic Church. He was 'way up once, but he lost his big job as vicar
general, and then he lost all his big jobs. I met a priest on the train
once--a young fellow--who told me, with a funny sort of laugh that
sounded a bit sad, too, that the Bishop had the Padre buried."
"I see," said Mark, though he didn't see any more than the agent. "But
the priest doesn't take it hard, does he?"
"Not that you could notice," Saunders answered. "The Padre's
jolly--smart, too--and a bookman. He has books enough in that little
house to start a public library, but he's too poor now to buy many of the
kind he's daffy over--old stuff, you know, first editions and the like."
They crossed the street to the rectory, an old-fashioned house nestling