“Singularly little,” Mr. Stenson replied.  “He left Maltenby with Miss Abbeway the day after their engagement, and, according to the stories which I have heard, arranged to dine with her that night.  She came to call for him and found that he had disappeared.  According to his servant, he simply walked out in morning clothes, soon after six o’clock, without leaving any message, and never returned.  On the top of that, though, there followed, as I expect you have heard, some very insistent police enquiries as to Orden’s doings on the night he spent with his friend Miles Furley.  There is no doubt that a German submarine was close to Blakeney harbour that night and that a communication of some sort was landed.”

“It seems absurd to connect Julian with any idea of treasonable communication with Germany,” the Bishop said slowly.  “A more typical young Englishman of his class I never met.”

“Up to a certain point I agree with you,” Mr. Stenson confessed, “but there are some further rumours to which I cannot allude, concerning Julian.  Orden, which are, to say the least of it, surprising.”

The two men came to a standstill once more.

Stenson laid his hand upon his companion’s shoulder.  “Come,” he went on, “I know what is the matter with you, my friend.  Your heart is too big.  The cry of the widow and the children lingers too long in your ears.  Remember some of your earlier sermons at the beginning of the war.  Remember how wonderfully you spoke one morning at St. Paul’s upon the spirituality to be developed by suffering, by sacrifice. `The hand which chastises also purifies.’  Wasn’t that what you said?  You probably didn’t know that I was one of your listeners, even—­ I myself, in those days, scarcely looked upon the war as I do now.  I remember crawling in at the side door of the Cathedral and sitting unrecognised on a hard chair.  It was a great congregation, and I was far away in the background, but I heard.  I remember the rustle, too, the little moaning, indrawn breath of emotion when the people rose to their feet.  Take heart, Bishop.  I will remind you once more of your own words `These are the days of purification.’”

The two men separated.  The Bishop walked thoughtfully towards the Strand, his hands clasped behind his back, the echo of those quoted words of his still in his ear.  As he came to the busy crossing, he raised his head and looked around him.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, “my eyes have been closed.  Perhaps there are things to be seen.”

He called a taxicab and, giving the man some muttered directions, was driven slowly down the Strand, looking eagerly first on one side of the way and then on the other.  It was approaching the luncheon hour and the streets were thronged.  Here seemed to be the meeting place of the Colonial troops,—­long, sinewy men, many of them, with bronzed faces and awkward gait.  They elbowed their way along, side by