“You’ll listen to me, right here and now,” cried Garvin.  “If you think I am going to let Eldon Parr’s minister, or any one else belonging to him, save that boy’s life, you’ve got another guess comin’.  That’s all.  I’d rather have him die—­d’ye hear?  I’d rather have him die.”

The woman behind them whimpered . . . .  The name was ringing like a knell in Hodder’s head—­Eldon Parr!  Coming, as it had, like a curse from the lips of this wretched, half-demented creature, it filled his soul with dismay.  And the accusation had in it the profound ring of truth.  He was Eldon Parr’s minister, and it was Eldon Parr who stood between him and his opportunity.

“Why do you speak of Mr. Parr?” he asked, though the question cost him a supreme effort.

“Why do I speak of him?  My God, because he ruined me.  If it hadn’t been for him, damn him, I’d have a home, and health and happiness to-day, and the boy would be well and strong instead of lying there with the life all but gone out of him.  Eldon Parr did for me, and now he’s murdered my son—­that’s why I mention him.”

In the sudden intensity of his feeling, Hodder seized Garvin by the arms —­arms that were little more than skin and bone.  The man might be crazed, he might be drunk:  that he believed what he was saying there could be no question.  He began to struggle violently, but the rector was strong.

“Be still,” he commanded.  And suddenly, overcome less by the physical power than by the aspect of the clergyman, an expression of bewilderment came into his eyes, and he was quiet.  Hodder dropped his arms.  “I do not intend to go until I hear what you have to say.  It would be useless, at any rate, since your child’s life is at stake.  Tell me how Mr. Parr has ruined you.”

Garvin stared at him, half in suspicion, half in amazement.

“I guess you never knew of his ruining anybody, did you?” he demanded sullenly.  “Well, I’ll tell you all right, and you can go and tell him.  He won’t care much—­he’s used to it by this time, and he gets square with God by his churches and charities.  Did you ever hear of a stock called Consolidated Tractions?”

Consolidated Tractions!  In contrast to the sordid misery and degradation of this last refuge of the desperate Hodder saw the lofty, panelled smoking room at Francis Ferguson’s, and was listening again to Wallis Plimpton’s cynical amusement as to how he and Everett Constable and Eldon Parr himself had “gat out” before the crash; “got out” with all the money of the wretch who now stood before him!  His parishioners! his Christians!  Oh God!

The man was speaking in his shrill voice.