“Come in.  Do come in,” urged Mr. Moze at the door of the study.

Audrey, who remained on the landing, heard her elders talk smoothly of grave Mozian things, while Mr. Moze unlocked the new tin box above the safe.

“I’d forgotten a most important paper,” said he, as he relocked the box.  “I have an appointment with the Bishop of Colchester at ten-forty-five, and I fear I may be late.  Will you excuse me, Miss Ingate?”

She excused him.

Departing, he put the paper into his pocket with a careful and loving gesture that well symbolised his passionate affection for the Society of which he was already the vice-chairman.  He had been a member of the National Reformation Society for eleven years.  Despite the promise of its name, this wealthy association of idealists had no care for reforms in a sadly imperfect England.  Its aim was anti-Romanist.  The Reformation which it had in mind was Luther’s, and it wished, by fighting an alleged insidious revival of Roman Catholicism, to make sure that so far as England was concerned Luther had not preached in vain.

Mr. Moze’s connection with the Society had originated in a quarrel between himself and a Catholic priest from Ipswich who had instituted a boys’ summer camp on the banks of Mozewater near the village of Moze.  Until that quarrel, the exceeding noxiousness of the Papal doctrine had not clearly presented itself to Mr. Moze.  In such strange ways may an ideal come to birth.  As Mr. Moze, preoccupied and gloomy once more, steered himself rapidly out of Moze towards the episcopal presence, the image of the imperturbable and Jesuitical priest took shape in his mind, refreshing his determination to be even with Rome at any cost.

CHAPTER II

THE THIEF’S PLAN WRECKED

“The fact is,” said Audrey, “father has another woman in the house now.”

Mr. Moze had left Miss Ingate in the study and Audrey had cautiously rejoined her there.

“Another woman in the house!” repeated Miss Ingate, sitting down in happy expectation.  “What on earth do you mean?  Who on earth do you mean?”

“I mean me.”

“You aren’t a woman, Audrey.”

“I’m just as much of a woman as you are.  All father’s behaviour proves it.”

“But your father treats you as a child.”

“No, he doesn’t.  He treats me as a woman.  If he thought I was a child he wouldn’t have anything to worry about.  I’m over nineteen.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Of course I don’t.  But I could if I liked.  I simply won’t look it because I don’t care to be made ridiculous.  I should start to look my age at once if father stopped treating me like a child.”

“But you’ve just said he treats you as a woman!”

“You don’t understand, Winnie,” said the girl sharply.  “Unless you’re pretending.  Now you’ve never told me anything about yourself, and I’ve always told you lots about myself.  You belong to an old-fashioned family.  How were you treated when you were my age?”