First, the answer had come back from Rome that the sentence was ratified—­a sentence simply to the effect that the Church could no longer protect this tonsured and consecrated son of hers from the secular laws.  But, as Monsignor knew privately, an urgent appeal had been made by Rome to remit the penalty in this instance, as in others.  Then the formalities of handing over the monk to the secular authorities had taken place, in accordance with the Clergy Discipline Amendment Act of 1964—­an Act by which the secular houses of Representatives had passed a code of penalties for clerks condemned by the ecclesiastical courts—­clerks, that is to say, who had availed themselves of Benefit of Clergy and had submitted themselves to ecclesiastical jurisdiction.  Under that Act Dom Adrian had been removed to a secular prison, his case had been re-examined and, in spite of the Pope’s appeal, the secular sentence passed.  And this morning Monsignor had read that the sentence had been carried out. . . .  He neither knew nor dared to ask in what form.  It was enough that it was death.

There had been a scene with the startled secretaries.  Fortunately Monsignor had been incoherent.  One of them had remained with him while the other ran for Father Jervis.  Then the two laymen had left the room, and the priests alone together.

Things were quieter now.  Monsignor had recovered himself, and was sitting white and breathless with his friend beside him.

“Come to Ireland for a week,” said the old man again, watching him with those large, steady, bright eyes of his.  “It is perfectly natural, under the circumstances, that the thing should be a shock.  To us, of course——­”

He broke off as Monsignor looked up with a strange white glare in his eyes.

“Well, well,” said the old man.  “You must give yourself a chance.  You’ve been working magnificently; I think perhaps a little too hard.  And we don’t want another breakdown. . . .  Then I take you’ll come to Ireland?  We’ll spend a perfectly quiet week, and be back in time for the meeting of Parliament.”

Monsignor made a small movement of assent with his head. (He had had Ireland explained to him before.)

“Then I’ll leave you quietly here for a little.  Call me up if you want me.  I’ll tell the secretaries to work in the next room.  I’ll see the Cardinal at once, and we’ll go by the five o’clock boat.  I’ll arrange everything.  You needn’t give it a thought.”

A curious process seemed to have been at work upon the mind of the man who had lost his memory, since his interview with the monk immediately after the trial.  At first a kind of numbness had descended upon him.  He had gone back to his business, his correspondence, his interviews, his daily consultation with the Cardinal, and had conducted all these things efficiently enough.  Yet, underneath, the situation arranged itself steadily and irresistibly.  It had become impressed upon him that, whether for good