Two thoughts struck the rector simultaneously, the:  revelation of what might be called a modern enlightenment in one of Mr. Bentley’s age, an indication of uninterrupted growth, of the sense of continued youth which had impressed him from the beginning; and, secondly, an intimation from the use of the plural pronoun we, of an association of workers (informal, undoubtedly) behind Mr. Bentley.  While he was engaged in these speculations the door opened.

“Heah’s Miss Sally, Marse Ho’ace,” said Sam.

“Good morning, Sally,” said Mr. Bentley, rising from the table with his customary courtesy, “I’m glad you came in.  Let me introduce Mr. Hodder, of St. John’s.”

Miss Grover had capability written all over her.  She was a young woman of thirty, slim to spareness, simply dressed in a shirtwaist and a dark blue skirt; alert, so distinctly American in type as to give a suggestion of the Indian.  Her quick, deep-set eyes searched Hodder’s face as she jerked his hand; but her greeting was cordial, and, matter-of-fact.  She stimulated curiosity.

“Well, Sally, what’s the news?” Mr. Bentley asked.

“Gratz, the cabinet-maker, was on the rampage again, Mr. Bentley.  His wife was here yesterday when I got home from work, and I went over with her.  He was in a beastly state, and all the niggers and children in the neighbourhood, including his own, around the shop.  Fusel oil, labelled whiskey,” she explained, succinctly.

“What did you do?”

“Took the bottle away from him,” said Miss Grower.  The simplicity of this method, Holder thought, was undeniable.  “Stayed there until he came to.  Then I reckon I scared him some.”

“How?” Mr. Bentley smiled.

“I told him he’d have to see you.  He’d rather serve three months than do that—­said so.  I reckon he would, too,” she declared grimly.  “He’s better than he was last year, I think.”  She thrust her hand in the pocket of her skirt and produced some bills and silver, which she counted.  “Here’s three thirty-five from Sue Brady.  I told her she hadn’t any business bothering you, but she swears she’d spend it.”

“That was wrong, Sally.”

Miss Grower tossed her head.

“Oh, she knew I’d take it, well enough.”

“I imagine she did,” Mr. Bentley replied, and his eyes twinkled.  He rose and led the way into the library, where he opened his desk, produced a ledger, and wrote down the amount in a fine hand.

“Susan Brady, three dollars and thirty-five cents.  I’ll put it in the savings bank to-day.  That makes twenty-two dollars and forty cents for Sue.  She’s growing rich.”

“Some man’ll get it,” said Sally.

“Sally,” said Mr. Bentley, turning in his chair, “Mr. Holder’s been telling me about a rather unusual woman in that apartment house just above Fourteenth Street, on the south side of Dalton.”

“I think I know her—­by sight,” Sally corrected herself.  She appealed. to Holder.  “Red hair, and lots of it—­I suppose a man would call it auburn.  She must have been something of a beauty, once.”