He noticed a little door in the wall above the fireplace. It was wedged with a piece of cardboard, and when he tugged, it opened easily. Inside, a cupboard reached deeply into the wall – one of those cubbyholes in old houses for storing odds and ends. He struck a match and saw the light glint on glass far within. His hand hesitated a moment, stayed by some premonition. Was drink Conroy’s vice? Hardly likely. Firmly, then, he reached in and drew out, not a bottle, but a two-pound jam jar. It was dark in color, filled seemingly with a dirty wad of papers. He was about to shove it back when the rounded shape of the wad caught his attention. He tugged at it, but it was wedged so tightly in that he couldn’t get it out. Impatiently he twisted it this way and that, and when it finally came with him, he found that it was made up of one-pound notes. There must have been several hundred of them, mildewed, grimy with dust and soot. He put them down on the desk and watched them jack themselves out of their roll and sprawl over the edge of the desk onto the floor. Even when they ceased to move, he stood staring down at them, rubbing his hands against the legs of his trousers.

Then he turned to the cupboard and peered in. When he lit another match, the light glinted again on glass. He raised the match, reaching it in, and stared with horror on three, four, five more jars, each filled with the same kind of dirty, tight-packed wad. His movements had stirred up the dust, which caught at the back of his throat. He wanted to cough, to spit out whatever was catching at him, but his tongue seemed to swell and fill the space of his mouth. He realized he was going to be sick and began to run, out through the hall and the kitchen, reaching the yard just in time, with breath gone and mouth agape. Crouching forward, holding himself out from the wall, he vomited, When it was over, he leaned in against the wall, pressing his head to it so that the rough pebble-dash bruised his temple. The silence gradually bore itself in on him, and he opened his eyes, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then searched hurriedly for his handkerchief.

The back door stood open behind him. He turned to stare at it, afraid to go back in, But what if someone came and found the money there, coiled on the floor? My God, what a scandal there would be! No one must know. O’Leary must not know. No one else, not even the Bishop, must ever know.