Molly looked at the man on the bed and sniffed.

"He must have air--" the whisper was a snort.

At that moment there was a knock on the outer door. On the iron outer
stairs was standing the priest.

"It's just the curate," said Mrs. Moloney, looking out of the window;
and then she disappeared into the tiny passage.

Molly stood defiantly, her figure drawn to its full height. She felt
that she knew exactly the kind of Irish curate who was coming in to
disturb, and probably kill, the unhappy man on the bed. Well, she should
make a fight for this poor, crushed life; she would stand between the
horrible tyranny and superstition that lit those pink candles, and that
would rouse a man to make his poor wretched conscience unhappy and
frighten him to death. "If there is a hell," she muttered, "it must be
ready to punish such brutality as that."

Mrs. Moloney opened the door as wide as possible, and the priest came
in. Miss Dexter looked at him in amazement; how, and where had she seen
him before?

He went straight to the bed and looked at the man in silence, while
Molly looked at him. He was about middle height, with very dark hair and
eyes, a small, well-formed head, and a very good forehead. It was not
until he turned to Mrs. Moloney that Molly understood why she had
fancied that she had seen him before. She was sure now that she had
seen his photograph, but, although she was certain of having seen it,
she could not remember when or where she had done so.