Hodder opened the door.  In the dingy passageway he perceived a tall figure which immediately turned out to be that of an old gentleman.  In spite of the heat, he wore a long coat and an old-fashioned, high collar, a black tie, under which was exposed a triangle of immaculate, pleated linen.  In one hand he held a gold-headed stick, a large tall hat of which the silk nap was a little rubbed, a string sustaining a parcel, the brown paper wrapping of which was soaked:  in the other, a manila bag containing lemons.

His head was bent forward a little, the high dome of it was bald, but the white hair clustered thickly behind the temples.  The face was clean-shaven, the cheeks touched with red, the nose high and dominating, distinctly philanthropic.  And the blue eyes rested on the clergyman with a benevolence unfeigned.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the old gentleman said; “I am told Mrs. Garvin lives here.”

Before the rector could reply Mrs. Garvin herself stood between them.

“It’s Mr. Bentley!” she exclaimed.

“I fear I’m intruding, ma’am,” he said.  “But some of Dicky’s little friends have just informed me that he is ill, and I have taken the liberty of calling to inquire.”

Mr. Bentley entered the room,—­simple words to express that which was in some sort an event.  He laid his parcels on the table, his hat and stick on a chair, and stood looking down in silence at the thin little form on the couch.  Presently he turned.

“I’m afraid he’s very ill, ma’am,” he said gently.  “You have your own doctor, no doubt.  But if you will permit me, as a friend, to make a suggestion, we have in the city one of the best child specialists in the United States, who is never weary of curing these little ones,—­Dr. Jarvis, and I shall be happy to ask him to come and see Dicky.”

Mrs. Garvin glanced at Hodder, who came forward.

“I was just about to telephone for Dr. Jarvis, Mr. Bentley, when you arrived.  I am Mr. Hodder, of St. John’s.”

“How do you do, sir?” The kindly eyes, alight with a gentle flame, rested upon the rugged figure of the rector.  “I am glad that you, too, agree that Dr. Jarvis is advisable, Mr. Hodder.”

There was a sound from the bed.  Garvin had got to his feet and was staring wildly, with reddened lids.

“Are you Horace Bentley?” he demanded.

“That is my name, sir,” Mr. Bentley replied.  His expression of surprise was only momentary.  And in all his life Hodder had never beheld a greater contrast in human beings than between that gracious and courtly old man and the haggard, unkempt, unshaved, and starving outcast facing him.  Something like a film came over Garvin’s eyes.

“He ruined you, too, twenty years back—­Eldon Parr did for you, too.  Oh, I know his record, I’ve followed his trail—­he got all the Grantham stock that would have made you a millionnaire!”

“Ah,” replied Mr. Bentley, smiling to humour him, “that’s something I have no wish to be, sir,—­a millionaire.”  He met the frightened gaze of the wife.  “Good day, ma’am.  If you will allow me, I’ll come to-morrow morning to learn what Dr. Jarvis will have had to say.  Have courage, ma’am, have courage.  You may have faith in Dr. Jarvis.”