“Rather a distinguished looking fellow,”—­he commented carelessly—­ “Is he clever?”

Longford hesitated.  He had been pulverised in one of the literary weeklies by an article on the authenticity of Shakespeare’s plays, signed boldly ’John Walden’—­and he had learned, by cautious enquiries here and there in London, that though, for the most part, extremely unassuming, the aforesaid John Walden was considered an authority in matters of historical and antiquarian research.  But he was naturally anxious that the future Duke of Ormistoune, when he had secured Mrs. Fred Vancourt’s millions, should not expend his powerful patronage to a country clergyman who might, from a ’Savage and Savile’ point of view, be considered an interloper.  So he replied with caution: 

“I believe he dabbles a little in literary and archaeological pursuits,—­many parsons do.  As an archaeologist, he certainly has merit.  You entertain a favourable opinion of the church, he has restored?”

“The church, as I have before told you, is perfect,”—­replied Roxmouth—­“And the man who carried out such a design must needs be an interesting personality.  I think Miss Vancourt finds him so!”

His cold grey eyes lightened unpleasantly as he made this remark, and Marius Longford, quick to discern every shade of tone in a voice, recognised a touch of satire in the seemingly casual words.  He made no observation, however, but kept his lynx eyes and ears open, watching and listening for anything that might perchance be of use in furthering his patron’s desires and aims.

Walden, meanwhile, had, quite unconsciously to himself, created a little sensation by his appearance.  He was the parson who had dared to stop in his reading of the service because the Manor house-party had entered the church a quarter of an hour behind time,—­he was the man who had told them that it was no use gaining the whole world if they lost their own souls,—­as if, in this advanced era of progress, any one of them had souls to lose!  Preposterous!  Here he was, this country cleric, who, as he was introduced by his hostess to the various gentlemen standing immediately about her, smiled urbanely, bowed ceremoniously, and comported himself with an air of intellectual composure and dignity that had a magnetic effect upon all.  Yet in himself he was singularly ill at ease.  Various emotions in his mind contended together to make him so.  To begin with, he disliked social ‘functions’ of all kinds, and particularly those at which any noted persons of the so-called ‘Smart Set’ were present.  He disliked women who made capital out of their beauty, by allowing their photographs to be on sale in shop-windows and to appear constantly in cheap pictorials, and of these Lady Beaulyon was a notorious example, to say nothing of the graver sins against morality and principle for which she was renowned.  He had no sympathy with sporting or betting men—­and he knew by repute that Lord Charlemont and Bludlip Courtenay