He followed his movements, the dignity and solemnity with which he exercised his functions, the reverential tones of his voice, the adoration shown in his every act and gesture.
And as he watched there arose another question--one he had often debated within himself: Were these people about him calmed and rested by the magnetic personality of the big-chested, strong-armed man; were they aided by the seductions of music, incense, and color, including the very vestments that hung from his broad shoulders; or did the calm and rest and aid proceed from a source infinitely higher, more powerful, more compelling, as had been shown in the case of the would-be murderer cowed by the sight of a sacred emblem?
And if there were two personalities, two influences, two dominant powers, one of man and the other of God, which one had he, Felix O'Day, come here to invoke?
At this mental question, the more practical side of his nature came to the fore.
"Neither of them," he said firmly to himself, "neither God nor priest." What he had come for had nothing to do with religion or with its forms.
A woman had been found lying on a door-step near this church, who might have attended the same evening service.

If so, Father Cruse might have seen her--no doubt knew her, in fact, must have both seen and recognized her.

She was the kind of woman whom Murford said Father Cruse helped.
What he was here for was to ask the priest a simple, straightforward question.

This over, he would continue on his way.
Then a sudden check arose.

How was he to describe this woman?
He had not dared probe Kitty for any further details than those she had given him.