They walked down the road in silence. And salute no man by the way, thought Father Conroy, around whom phrases gathered continually, like gnats. Now, where did that one come out of? Frowning, he looked down on the little man who had engendered it.

The fellow was looking at the house. “That yours, then?”

It was a big house; it looked impressive now in the half-light, when one could not see the paintwork, the drooping gutters. On an impulse Father Conroy said, “Ah, no, I’m only the boy there.”

The man looked at him curiously. “D’you work there, you mean?”

“Ay, I keep the place in order, trim the our hedges and all to that. ’Tis hard to keep up with all they want done.” He hesitated, then lowered his voice, “The boss is a bloody divil.”

The man nodded in sympathy. “’e’s got money, I can see that.”

“Don’t be talking!” said Father Conroy, and stretched his hands out to encompass the wealth of the world. “Will ye come in? Come on in to the kitchen and I’ll get ye a cup of tea.”

The man shook his head. “I got business to do.”

Father Conroy looked at him. He wasn’t a traveler, that was one sure thing, unless he was in a very small way, pushing holy pictures, perhaps, or out-of-date Latin missals. Only for his accent and the little case under his arm, he might have been a tinker, buying for the fair. But a tinker would have been bolder.

“The business of one greater than I,” the man said, and suddenly, ingratiatingly, smiled.

Father Conroy began to rub his jaw slowly. He had seen that smile before, more uncertain than a salesman’s, an evangelizing smile. Lord, this had gone far enough. It would be just his luck to be caught in such a situation by Phil O’Hara, or Bat Cullen, or worse, someone like Peter Mahon, dropping in on him out of the blue. He could imagine the remarks the diocese would pass – Tom Conroy, Secret Agent – Kilbride, a nest of Jehovah’s Witnesses – sure, we might have known!

And yet, it was the kind of situation he could not bear to walk out of. Damn it, wouldn’t it make a good story? Conroy’s conversion! But no, that wouldn’t be fair – the poor devil was cold, he looked as if he could do with a good bite to eat. Ask him in, then, why not? Tell him who I am and send him on his way – that would be the decent thing to do.

But the man held back, shaking his head. There was an obstinate, leaden streak in him.

“What’s the matter?” asked Father Conroy.