“He must be brought in, at once.  Do you know where Dr. Latimer’s office is, on Tower Street?” he asked the man.  “Go there, and bring this doctor back with you as quickly as possible.  If he is not in, get another, physician.”

Between them, the driver and Holder got the burden out of the carriage and up the steps.  The light from the hallway confirmed the rector’s fear.

“It’s Preston Parr,” he said.

The next moment was too dreadful for surprise, but never had the sense of tragedy so pierced the innermost depths of Holder’s being as now, when Horace Bentley’s calmness seemed to have forsaken him; and as he gazed down upon the features on the pillow, he wept . . . .  Holder turned away.  Whatever memories those features evoked, memories of a past that still throbbed with life these were too sacred for intrusion.  The years of exile, of uncomplaining service to others in this sordid street and over the wide city had not yet sufficed to allay the pain, to heal the wound of youth.  Nay, loyalty had kept it fresh—­a loyalty that was the handmaid of faith. . .

The rector softly left the room, only to be confronted with another harrowing scene in the library, where a frantic woman was struggling in Sally Grover’s grasp.  He went to her assistance. . .  Words of comfort, of entreaty were of no avail,—­Kate Marcy did not seem to hear them.  Hers, in contrast to that other, was the unmeaning grief, the overwhelming sense of injustice of the child; and with her regained physical strength the two had all they could do to restrain her.

“I will go to him,” she sobbed, between her paroxysms, “you’ve got no right to keep me—­he’s mine . . . he came back to me—­he’s all I ever had . . . .”

So intent were they that they did not notice Mr. Bentley standing beside them until they heard his voice.

“What she says is true,” he told them.  “Her place is in there.  Let her go.”

Kate Marcy raised her head at the words, and looked at him a strange, half-comprehending, half-credulous gaze.  They released her, helped her towards the bedroom, and closed the door gently behind her. . .  The three sat in silence until the carriage was heard returning, and the doctor entered.

The examination was brief, and two words, laconically spoken, sufficed for an explanation—­apoplexy, alcohol.  The prostrate, quivering woman was left where they had found her.

Dr. Latimer was a friend of Mr. Bentley’s, and betrayed no surprise at a situation which otherwise might have astonished him.  It was only when he learned the dead man’s name, and his parentage, that he looked up quickly from his note book.

“The matter can be arranged without a scandal,” he said, after an instant.  “Can you tell me something of the circumstances?”

It was Hodder who answered.

“Preston Parr had been in love with this woman, and separated from her.  She was under Mr. Bentley’s care when he found her again, I infer, by accident.  From what the driver says, they were together in a hotel in Ayers Street, and he died after he had been put in a carriage.  In her terror, she was bringing him to Mr. Bentley.”