Presently the cat from the notice-board appeared round the corner, eyed Frank suspiciously, decided that he was not dangerous, came on, walking delicately, stepped up on to the further end of the brick stair, and began to arch itself about and rub its back against the warm angle of the doorpost.  Frank rapped again, interrupting the cat for an instant, and then stooped down to scratch it under the ear.  The cat crooned delightedly.  Steps sounded inside the house; the cat stopped writhing, and as the door opened, darted in noiselessly with tail erect past the woman who held the door uninvitingly half open.

She had a thin, lined face and quick black eyes.

“What do you want?” she asked sharply, looking up and down Frank’s figure with suspicion.  Her eyes dwelt for a moment on the bruise on his cheek-bone.

“I want to see the priest, please,” said Frank.

“You can’t see him.”

“I am very sorry,” said Frank, “but I must see him.”

“Coming here begging!” exclaimed the woman bitterly.  “I’d be ashamed!  Be off with you!”

Frank’s dignity asserted itself a little.

“Don’t speak to me in that tone, please.  I am a Catholic, and I wish to see the priest.”

The woman snorted; but before she could speak there came the sound of an opening door and a quick step on the linoleum of the little dark passage.

“What’s all this?” said a voice, as the woman stepped back.

He was a big, florid young man, with yellow hair, flushed as if with sleep; his eyes were bright and tired-looking, and his collar was plainly unbuttoned at the back.  Also, his cassock was unfastened at the throat and he bore a large red handkerchief in his hand.  Obviously this had just been over his face.

Now, I do not blame this priest in the slightest.  He had sung a late mass—­which never agreed with him—­and in his extreme hunger he had eaten two platefuls of hot beef, with Yorkshire pudding, and drunk a glass and a half of solid beer.  And he had just fallen into a deep sleep before giving Catechism, when the footsteps and voices had awakened him.  Further, every wastrel Catholic that came along this road paid him a call, and he had not yet met with one genuine case of want.  When he had first come here he had helped beggars freely and generously, and he lived on a stipend of ninety pounds a year, out of which he paid his housekeeper fifteen.

“What do you want?” he said.

“May I speak to you, father?” said Frank.

“Certainly.  Say what you’ve got to say.”

“Will you help me with sixpence, father?”

The priest was silent, eyeing Frank closely.

“Are you a Catholic?”

“Yes, father.”

“I didn’t see you at mass this morning.”

“I wasn’t here this morning.  I was walking on the roads.”

“Where did you hear mass?”

“I didn’t hear it at all, father.  I was on the roads.”