Charred Wood

The autumn tints were full on the trees in Sihasset, but the air was still balmy enough to make the veranda of Father Murray's residence far more pleasant than indoors. The Pastor had returned. Pipe in hand, wearing his comfortable old cassock, and with a smile of ineffable peace on his face, he sat chatting with Saunders. The detective was evidently as pleased as Father Murray. He was leaning on "Old Hickory" and puffing at a cigar, with contentment in every line of his countenance.

"No job I ever did, Father, gave me more satisfaction than this one," he was saying. "It was well worth while, even though I'll have to go out now and look for another one."

"I do not believe, Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "that you will have to look for another position. In fact, I do not believe you would care for the same kind of position you had before--would you? I suppose I shall have to let you into a little secret. Mark is not going to stay all the time on his Irish estate. He has bought Killimaga and expects to be here for at least part of each year. I heard him say that he would try to influence you to become his intendent."

"Well, that sounds pretty big, Father. But what does an intendent intend to do? It's a new one on me."

"An intendent, my dear Mr. Saunders," said Father Murray, "is quite a personage on the other side. He is the man who runs the business affairs of a castle. He has charge of all the property. It is quite a good position; better, in fact, than that of a private detective. Then, you see, his care of the servants and continued watchfulness over the property makes detective experience somewhat valuable. If the salary suits you, by all means I would advise you to accept the offer. Besides, you know, Mr. Saunders, we have all gotten to like you very much. Apart from the fact that you are what Mrs. O'Leary would call 'a black Protestant,' I look upon you as one of my own."

Saunders laughed. "'A black Protestant' indeed! A lot of difference that makes with you. Why, you were 'a black Protestant' yourself, Father Murray, and in some ways I believe they only whitewashed you."

"Now, Mr. Saunders," reproved Father Murray, "that is not very complimentary. There is no whitewash or veneer about my Catholicity."

Despite the quizzical good-humor of the priest, there was a touch of seriousness in his voice, and Saunders hastened to explain.

"I didn't mean it quite that way, Father--only it strikes me that there is always a difference between what I call the 'simon-pure Catholic' and the one that wasn't born a Catholic."