At this mental question, the more practical side of his nature came to the fore.

“Neither of them,” he said firmly to himself, “neither God nor priest.”  What he had come for had nothing to do with religion or with its forms.  A woman had been found lying on a door-step near this church, who might have attended the same evening service.  If so, Father Cruse might have seen her—­no doubt knew her, in fact, must have both seen and recognized her.  She was the kind of woman whom Murford said Father Cruse helped.  What he was here for was to ask the priest a simple, straightforward question.  This over, he would continue on his way.

Then a sudden check arose.  How was he to describe this woman?  He had not dared probe Kitty for any further details than those she had given him.  To waste therefore, the valuable time of Father Cruse with no more information than he at present possessed would be as inconsiderate as it was foolish.

With this new view of the difficulty confronting him, he reached for his hat, so as to be ready at the first break in the service to tiptoe noiselessly out.  He would then go back to Kitty and, without exciting her suspicions, learn something more of the outward appearance of the object of her tender sympathy.

As he was about to leave the pew, the tones of a tiny bell were heard through the aisles.  Instantly a deep, almost breathless, silence fell upon the church.  The penitents, who were on their knees beneath the clusters of candles lighting the side chapels, remained motionless; those in the seats bowed their heads, their foreheads resting on the backs of the pews.

As he listened with lowered head, a dull, scuffling sound was heard near the swinging doors of the vestibule, as if some one were being roughly handled.  Then an angry voice, “she shan’t go in!” followed by high-pitched, defiant tones:  “Get out of my way.  I shan’t go in, shan’t I?  I’d like to see you or anybody else keep me out!  This place is free, and so am I. Jim hasn’t showed up, and I’m going to wait for him here.  I’ve got a date.”

She was abreast of Felix now, a girl of twenty, maudlin drunk, her hat awry, her hair in a frowse, her dress open at the neck.

She steadied herself for a moment, and became conscious of Felix, who had risen, horror-stricken, from his seat.

“Jim ain’t showed up.  He is all right, and don’t you forget it.  Them guys wanted to give me the grand bounce, but I got a date, see?”

She reeled on up the aisle until she reached the steps of the altar.  There she stood, swaying before the lights, repeating her cry:  “They dassen’t touch me.  I got a date, I tell you!”

Father Cruse, without turning, continued his ministrations with the same composure he would have maintained at a baptism had its solemnity been disturbed by the cry of a child.  By this time, several women, appalled by the sacrilege, left their seats and moved toward her, begging, then commanding, her to stop talking, all fearing to add to the noise yet not daring to let it continue, until they gently but firmly pushed her through the door at the end of the church and so on into the street.