had been formed.  It had been the tenement of a spirit beautiful and swift.  No matter to what things he himself had been born—­he had put that foolishness behind him—­at all events his dream bad come partly true.  His father had been one of the great ones, one of the conquerors, one of the high princes of men.  Multitudes of kings had not been so parented.  Outwardly a successful business man and a fanatical Dissenter—­there were thousands like Silas Finn.  But Paul knew his inner greatness, the terrific struggle of his soul, the warrings between fierce blood and iron will, the fervent purpose, the lofty aspirations and the unwavering conduct of his life of charity and sorrow.  He stretched out his hand and with his finger tips lightly touched the dead man’s forehead.  “I’m proud to be your son,” he murmured.

Then the nurse came in and Paul went downstairs.  Barney Bill waylaid him in the hall, and led him into the dining-room.  “Have a little food and drink, sonny.  You look as if yer need it—­especially drink.  ’Ere.”  He seized a decanter of whisky—­since Paul’s first visit, Silas had always kept it in the house for his son’s, comforting—­and would have filled the tumbler had not Paul restrained him.  He squirted in the soda.  “Drink it down and you’ll feel better.”

Paul swallowed a great gulp.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “There are times when it does help a man.”

“Liquor is like a dawg,” said Bill.  “Keep it in subjection, so to speak, and it’s yer faithful friend.”

“Where’s Jane?” Paul asked.

“She’s busy.  Half the borough seem to be calling, or telephoning”—­ and even at that moment Paul could hear the maid tripping across the hall and opening the front door—­“I’ve told her what occurred.  She seemed half skeered.  She’s had a dreadful day, pore gal.”

“She has indeed,” said Paul.

He threw himself into a chair, dead beat, at the end of emotional strain, and remained talking with the old man of he scarce knew what.  But these two—­Jane and the old man—­were linked to him by imperishable ties, and he could not leave them yet awhile in the house of death.  Barney Bill stirred the fire, which blazed up, making the perky animals on the hearth cast faint and fantastic shadows.

“It’s funny how he loved those darned little beasts, isn’t it now?  I remember of him telling me as how they transported him into magic something—­or the other—­medi—­he had a word for it—­I dunno—­”

“Mediaeval?”

“That’s it, sonny.  Mediaeval forests.  It means back of old times, don’t it?  King Arthur and his Round Table—­I done a bit of reading, yer know.”  The old man took out pouch and pipe.  “That’s what drew us together, sonny, our taste for literature.  Remember?”

“Can I ever forget?” said Paul.