So, with his model before him—­a miniature replica of the interior of the Abbey, with tiny dummy figures on blocks that could be shifted this way and that, he was engaged in adding in a minute ecclesiastical hand rubrical notes to his copy of the Order of Proceedings.

When the porter therefore rang up a little after twenty-one o’clock, that a lady wished to see him, he answered rather brusquely down the tube that it was impossible.  But the bell rang again, and to his impatient question, the reply came up that it was Mrs. Brand below, and that she did not ask for more than ten minutes’ conversation.  This was quite another matter.  Oliver Brand was an important personage, and his wife therefore had significance, and Mr. Francis apologised, gave directions that she was to come to his ante-room, and rose, sighing, from his dummy Abbey and officials.

She seemed very quiet this evening, he thought, as he shook hands with her a minute later; she wore her veil down, so that he could not see her face very well, but her voice seemed to lack its usual vivacity.

“I am so sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Francis,” she said.  “I only want to ask you one or two questions.”

He smiled at her encouragingly.

“Mr. Brand, no doubt—–­”

“No,” she said, “Mr. Brand has not sent me.  It is entirely my own affair.  You will see my reasons presently.  I will begin at once.  I know I must not keep you.”

It all seemed rather odd, he thought, but no doubt he would understand soon.

“First,” she said, “I think you used to know Father Franklin.  He became a Cardinal, didn’t he?”

Mr. Francis assented, smiling.

“Do you know if he is alive?”

“No,” he said.  “He is dead.  He was in Rome, you know, at the time of its destruction.”

“Ah!  You are sure?”

“Quite sure.  Only one Cardinal escaped—­Steinmann.  He was hanged in Berlin; and the Patriarch of Jerusalem died a week or two later.”

“Ah! very well.  Well, now, here is a very odd question.  I ask for a particular reason, which I cannot explain, but you will soon understand....  It is this—­Why do Catholics believe in God?”

He was so much taken aback that for a moment he sat staring.

“Yes,” she said tranquilly, “it is a very odd question.  But—–­” she hesitated.  “Well, I will tell you,” she said.  “The fact is, that I have a friend who is—­is in danger from this new law.  I want to be able to argue with her; and I must know her side.  You are the only priest—­I mean who has been a priest—­whom I ever knew, except Father Franklin.  So I thought you would not mind telling me.”

Her voice was entirely natural; there was not a tremor or a falter in it.  Mr. Francis smiled genially, rubbing his hands softly together.

“Ah!” he said.  “Yes, I see....  Well, that is a very large question.  Would not to-morrow, perhaps—–?”