Marjorie glanced shyly towards Alice, as if to ask a question. (She was listening, it seemed to her, with every nerve in her tired body.) The priest saw the glance.

“Mr. Topcliffe, madam?  Well; let us say he is a dear friend of the Lieutenant of the Tower, and has, I think, lodgings there just now.  And he is even a friend of Catholics, too—­to such, at least, as desire a heavenly crown.”

“He is an informer and a tormentor!” broke in Anthony harshly.

“Well, sir; let us say that he is very loyal to the letter of the law; and that he presides over our Protestant bed of Procrustes.”

“The—­” began Marjorie, emboldened by the kindness of the priest’s voice.

“The bed of Procrustes, madam, was a bed to which all who lay upon it had to be conformed.  Those that were too long were made short; and those that were too short were made long.  It is a pleasant classical name for the rack.”

Marjorie caught her breath.  But Father Campion went on smoothly.

“We shall have a clear day to-morrow, I think,” he said.  “If you are at liberty, sir, and these ladies are not too wearied—­I have a little business in Westminster; and—­”

“Why, yes,” said Anthony, “for to-morrow night we expect friends.  From Rheims, sir.”

The priest dropped his foot and leaned forward.

“From Rheims?” he said sharply.

The other nodded.

“Eight or ten at least will arrive.  Not all are priests.  One is a friend of our own from Derbyshire, who will not be made priest for five years yet.”

“I had not heard they were to come so soon,” said Father Campion.  “And what a company of them!”

“There are a few of them who have been here before.  Mr. Ballard is one of them.”

The priest was silent an instant.

“Mr. Ballard,” he said.  “Ballard!  Yes; he has been here before.  He travels as Captain Fortescue, does he not?  You are a friend of his?”

“Yes, sir.”

Father Campion made as if he would speak; but interrupted himself and was silent; and it seemed to Marjorie as if another mood was fallen on him.  And presently they were talking again of London and its sights.

IV

In spite of her weariness, Marjorie could not sleep for an hour or two after she had gone to bed.  It was an extraordinary experience to her to have fallen in, on the very night of her coming to London, with the one man whose name stood to her for all that was gallant in her faith.  As she lay there, listening to the steady breathing of Alice, who knew no such tremors of romance, to the occasional stamp of a horse across the yard, and, once or twice, to voices and footsteps passing on some paved way between the houses, she rehearsed again and again to herself the tales she had heard of him.