Mark was too much surprised to answer.

“Don’t look so horror-struck, Mr. Griffin.  The thing might have an explanation, but no one asked it.  It looked too unexplainable of course.  The story leaked out, and after that Monsignore Murray was avoided.  Never once did I give in to the full belief that my dear old saint was wrong, so I gently suggested one day that I should like his fullest confidence about Miss Atheson.  He avoided the subject.  Still I was loath to believe.  I made up my mind to save him by a transfer, but he forestalled me and asked a change; so I sent him to Sihasset.”

Mark found his voice.

“That was the reason?  And he never knew?”

“That was the reason.  I thought he would ask for it, and that I would then have a chance to tell him; but he asked for nothing.  The scene when he left his work at the cathedral was so distressing to me that I would willingly lay down my office to-morrow rather than go through with it again.”

“But he is so gentle.  He could not make a scene?”

“That’s it, that’s it.  There was no scene, and yet there was.  I told you how I loved him.  We first met at college, in Rome.  In years the difference between us was not so very great, but in experience he was far older than I. I was alone in the world, and he was both father and friend to me.  When I sent him away, I felt as Brutus must have felt when he condemned his sons to death.  Only it was worse.  It was a son condemning his father to disgrace.  But I hoped to save him.”

“And you did not?”

“No, that was harder yet.  I thought I had—­until I went to Sihasset and saw her in the church.  Poor creature!  She must have followed him.”

“But, my dear Lord Bishop, she is so young and he—­”

“Yes, I know.  But facts are facts.  What could I do?  Look here, Mr. Griffin.  Whatever there is in this that excuses him I ought to know.  And he ought to know the cause of my actions in his regard.  I shall have to tell him and then—­ If there is an explanation, how can I forgive myself?  But he cannot be blind.  Soon all Sihasset will notice and talk.  I shall have to remove him again, and then . . . .  My God!  I cannot think that my saint could ever merit such an end.  Do you know what it means to be an unfrocked priest?”

“Yes.”  Mark had no other answer.  His distress was too deep.  His mind was working fast, however.

“Do you think, Mr. Griffin, that you could tell him—­point out the danger of his position—­without hurting him?  He is very sensitive.  Don’t tell him all you know—­only intimate gently that there may be some misunderstanding of this kind.  He surely will guess the rest.  You may save him if you can do this and—­if you will do it.”

It was on Mark’s tongue to refuse, but he happened to glance at the Bishop’s face.  The tears were streaming down his cheeks.