At that time in the morning, Lord Loring was generally to be found either in the library or the picture gallery.  His wife tried the library first.  On entering the room, she found but one person in it—­not the person of whom she was in search.  There, buttoned up in his long frock coat, and surrounded by books of all sorts and sizes, sat the plump elderly priest who had been the especial object of Major Hynd’s aversion.

“I beg your pardon, Father Benwell,” said Lady Loring; “I hope I don’t interrupt your studies?”

Father Benwell rose and bowed with a pleasant paternal smile.  “I am only trying to organize an improved arrangement of the library,” he said, simply.  “Books are companionable creatures—­members, as it were, of his family, to a lonely old priest like myself.  Can I be of any service to your ladyship?”

“Thank you, Father.  If you can kindly tell me where Lord Loring is—­”

“To be sure!  His lordship was here five minutes since—­he is now in the picture gallery.  Pray permit me!”

With a remarkably light and easy step for a man of his age and size, he advanced to the further end of the library, and opened a door which led into the gallery.

“Lord Loring is among the pictures,” he announced.  “And alone.”  He laid a certain emphasis on the last word, which might or might not (in the case of a spiritual director of the household) invite a word of explanation.

Lady Loring merely said, “Just what I wanted; thank you once more, Father Benwell”—­and passed into the picture gallery.

Left by himself again in the library, the priest walked slowly to and fro, thinking.  His latent power and resolution began to show themselves darkly in his face.  A skilled observer would now have seen plainly revealed in him the habit of command, and the capacity for insisting on his right to be obeyed.  From head to foot, Father Benwell was one of those valuable soldiers of the Church who acknowledge no defeat, and who improve every victory.

After a while, he returned to the table at which he had been writing when Lady Loring entered the room.  An unfinished letter lay open on the desk.  He took up his pen and completed it in these words:  “I have therefore decided on trusting this serious matter in the hands of Arthur Penrose.  I know he is young—­but we have to set against the drawback of his youth, the counter-merits of his incorruptible honesty and his true religious zeal.  No better man is just now within my reach—­and there is no time to lose.  Romayne has recently inherited a large increase of fortune.  He will be the object of the basest conspiracies—­conspiracies of men to win his money, and (worse still) of women to marry him.  Even these contemptible efforts may be obstacles in the way of our righteous purpose, unless we are first in the field.  Penrose left Oxford last week.  I expect him here this morning, by my invitation.  When I have given him the necessary instructions, and have found the means of favorably introducing him to Romayne, I shall have the honor of forwarding a statement of our prospects so far.”