This gentleman was still in the town, though not stationed in the Prison, and knowing something of the vows of a priest, I despaired at once of extracting anything from him, but became possessed of a desire to have a look at his handwriting. Accordingly I sent him a polite note requesting him to send me word when he would be at liberty to see me for a few minutes’ conversation. I fully expected to get a written note in reply, however short, but instead I got a message delivered by the servant girl, to the effect that her master was at home, and would see me now. I grinned and bore it, though it is not pleasant to feel eclipsed in cunning by anyone. I went with the girl, and found the priest, a pale, hard-worked looking man, leaning back in his chair exhausted and silent, and certainly looking as if he at least did not eat the bread of idleness. I felt rather small as I introduced myself and ran over the case that had brought me there, he listening to the whole with closed eyes, and a face as immovable as that of a statue. When I had finished there was an awkward pause. I had not exactly asked anything, but it was implied in my sudden pull up, but for a full minute there was no response. At last he opened his eyes—and very keen, penetrating eyes they were—and, fixing me sternly with his gaze, he said— “Did you ever come in contact with a Catholic priest before Mr M^cGovan?” “Frequently.” “Did you ever know one to break his vows and reveal the secrets of heaven?” “Never.” “Do you think one of them would do it if you asked him?” “I think not.” “Do you think he would do it if you threatened him with prison?” “Scarcely.” “Or with death—say if you had power to tear him limb from limb, or torture every drop of blood from his body?” “I don’t know—I shouldn’t like to try.” “Then what do you come to me for?” he sharply continued, with a slight tinge of red in his pale cheeks. “Am I, think you, more unworthy than any other that has yet lived?” “No, I should hope not,” I stammered; “and I did not come expecting you to reveal what was told you in confession——” “What then—you wish to know if I wrote that letter maybe?” “Yes.” “And you’ll be satisfied that I speak the truth when I answer?” “Yes.” “And you’ll ask no more?” “I’ll ask no more.” “Then I didn’t. Bridget, show the gentleman out.” I was so staggered and nonplussed that I was in the street before I had time to ponder his reply. I was convinced then, as I am now, that the priest spoke the literal truth; how then had the letter been written? Certainly not by O’Doyle himself. Was it possible that a third person could have got at the information?