“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.”