“Will you hear my confession, father?” he said abruptly.

II

Victoria Station, still named after the great nineteenth-century Queen, was neither more nor less busy than usual as he came into it half-an-hour later.  The vast platform, sunk now nearly two hundred feet below the ground level, showed the double crowd of passengers entering and leaving town.  Those on the extreme left, towards whom Percy began to descend in the open glazed lift, were by far the most numerous, and the stream at the lift-entrance made it necessary for him to move slowly.

He arrived at last, walking in the soft light on the noiseless ribbed rubber, and stood by the door of the long car that ran straight through to the Junction.  It was the last of a series of a dozen or more, each of which slid off minute by minute.  Then, still watching the endless movement of the lifts ascending and descending between the entrances of the upper end of the station, he stepped in and sat down.

He felt quiet now that he had actually started.  He had made his confession, just in order to make certain of his own soul, though scarcely expecting any definite danger, and sat now, his grey suit and straw hat in no way distinguishing him as a priest (for a general leave was given by the authorities to dress so for any adequate reason).  Since the case was not imminent, he had not brought stocks or pyx—­Father Dolan had wired to him that he might fetch them if he wished from St. Joseph’s, near the Junction.  He had only the violet thread in his pocket, such as was customary for sick calls.

He was sliding along peaceably enough, fixing his eyes on the empty seat opposite, and trying to preserve complete collectedness when the car abruptly stopped.  He looked out, astonished, and saw by the white enamelled walks twenty feet from the window that they were already in the tunnel.  The stoppage might arise from many causes, and he was not greatly excited, nor did it seem that others in the carriage took it very seriously; he could hear, after a moment’s silence, the talking recommence beyond the partition.

Then there came, echoed by the walls, the sound of shouting from far away, mingled with hoots and chords; it grew louder.  The talking in the carriage stopped.  He heard a window thrown up, and the next instant a car tore past, going back to the station although on the down line.  This must be looked into, thought Percy:  something certainly was happening; so he got up and went across the empty compartment to the further window.  Again came the crying of voices, again the signals, and once more a car whirled past, followed almost immediately by another.  There was a jerk—­a smooth movement.  Percy staggered and fell into a seat, as the carriage in which he was seated itself began to move backwards.

There was a clamour now in the next compartment, and Percy made his way there through the door, only to find half-a-dozen men with their heads thrust from the windows, who paid absolutely no attention to his inquiries.  So he stood there, aware that they knew no more than himself, waiting for an explanation from some one.  It was disgraceful, he told himself, that any misadventure should so disorganise the line.