be told what she called her ‘pantermine’ stories.  I have seen her there sitting listening—­listening with strange quiet on her and dull yearning in her sodden eyes.  So would other and worse women go to her, and I, who had struggled with them, could see that she had reached some remote longing in their beings which I had never touched.  In time the seed would have stirred to life—­it is beginning to stir even now.  During the months since she came back to the court—­though they have laughed at her—­both men and women have begun to see her as a creature weirdly set apart.  Most of them feel something like awe of her; they half believe her prayers to be bewitchments, but they want them on their side.  They have never wanted mine.  That I have known—­known.  She believes that her Deity is in Apple Blossom Court—­in the dire holes its people live in, on the broken stairway, in every nook and awful cranny of it—­a great Glory we will not see—­only waiting to be called and to answer.  Do I believe it—­do you—­do any of those anointed of us who preach each day so glibly ‘God is everywhere’?  Who is the one who believes?  If there were such a man he would go about as Moses did when ’He wist not that his face shone.’”

They had gone out together and were standing in the fog in the court.  The curate removed his hat and passed his handkerchief over his damp forehead, his breath coming and going almost sobbingly, his eyes staring straight before him into the yellowness of the haze.

“Who,” he said after a moment of singular silence, “who are you?”

Antony Dart hesitated a few seconds, and at the end of his pause he put his hand into his overcoat pocket.

“If you will come upstairs with me to the room where the girl Glad lives, I will tell you,” he said, “but before we go I want to hand something over to you.”

The curate turned an amazed gaze upon him.

“What is it?” he asked.

Dart withdrew his hand from his pocket, and the pistol was in it.

“I came out this morning to buy this,” he said.  “I intended—­never mind what I intended.  A wrong turn taken in the fog brought me here.  Take this thing from me and keep it.”

The curate took the pistol and put it into his own pocket without comment.  In the course of his labors he had seen desperate men and desperate things many times.  He had even been—­at moments—­a desperate man thinking desperate things himself, though no human being had ever suspected the fact.  This man had faced some tragedy, he could see.  Had he been on the verge of a crime—­had he looked murder in the eyes?  What had made him pause?  Was it possible that the dream of Jinny Montaubyn being in the air had reached his brain—­his being?

He looked almost appealingly at him, but he only said aloud: 

“Let us go upstairs, then.”

So they went.

As they passed the door of the room where the dead woman lay Dart went in and spoke to Miss Montaubyn, who was still there.