shall, possibly, be extricated. 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 door knob. “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 by-ways.
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
