Now that he was taking action—­doing something—­the worst horror of responsibility left him for a while; he seemed to have cast some of it already off his own shoulders and on to the Admiral’s.  As he ran he found time to think of Casey.  Casey was doing this thing—­not in hatred or in villainy for gain—­but because it seemed to him right—­right, or at least necessary.  Casey was laying down his own life in the deed.  How could man, framed in God’s image, expect ultimate good out of devilish cruelty?  Yet from the world’s beginning men had murdered and tortured each other on this only plea; had butchered women and the very babes; had stamped upon God’s image and—­marvel of marvels—­for its soul’s salvation, not for their own advantage.  At every stride Gilbart felt his moral footing, trusted for years without question, cracking and crumbling and swirling away in blocks.  Red flames leapt into the fissures and filled them.  The end of the world had surely come; but—­he must run to the Admiral!  He kept that uppermost in his mind, and ran.

The windows of the Admiralty House blazed with light.  The Admiral’s wife was giving a dinner and a dance, and already a small crowd had gathered to see the earlier guests arrive.  The sight dashed Gilbart.  Suddenly he remembered that the letter had reached him by the afternoon post.  It was now half-past seven, and he would have to explain the interval; for of course the Admiral would suspect the whole story at first.  Gilbart knew the official manner; he had been privileged to study the fine flower of it in this particular Admiral one afternoon six months before, when the great man had condescended to sit on the platform at the Mission anniversary.  “Tut, tut—­a stupid practical joke “—­that would be the beginning; and then would follow cross-examination in the coldest court-martial fashion.  Well, he could explain; but it would be just as well to have the story pat beforehand.

One minute—­ten minutes went by.  Cabs rattled up and private carriages; officers in glittering uniforms, ladies muffled in silk and swansdown stepped past the policeman behind whom Gilbart hesitated.  This would never do; better he had gone in with the story hot on his lips.  He twitched the policeman’s elbow.

“May I pass, please?  I want to see the Admiral.”

“That’s likely, ain’t it?”

“But I have a message for him; an urgent one—­one that won’t keep a moment!”

“Why, I have seen you hanging round here this quarter hour with these very eyes!  ‘Won’t keep’?  Here, you get out!”

“I tell you—­”

“Oh, deliver us!” the policeman interrupted.  “What’s the matter with you?  Come to keep the Admiral’s dinner cold while you hand over command of the Channel Fleet?” He winked heavily at one or two of the nearest in the crowd, and they laughed.