The character of the street had changed to what might be called shabby-genteel, and they stopped before a three-story brick house—­one of a row—­that showed signs of scrupulous care.  The steps were newly scrubbed, the woodwork neatly painted.

“This is where I live, sir,” said Mr. Bentley, opening the door with a latchkey and leading the way into a high room on the right, darkened and cool, and filled with superb, old-fashioned rosewood furniture.  It was fitted up as a library, with tall shelves reaching almost to the ceiling.

An old negro appeared, dressed in a swallow-tailed coat.  His hair was as white as his master’s, and his face creased with age.

“Sam,” said Mr. Bentley, “I have brought home a gentleman for supper.”

“Yassah, Misteh Ho’ace.  I was jest agwine to open up de blin’s.”

He lifted the wire screens and flung back the shutters, beamed on the rector as he relieved him of his hat, and noiselessly retired.  Curiosity, hitherto suppressed by more powerful feelings, awoke in Hodder speculations which ordinarily would have been aroused before:  every object in the room bespoke gentility, was eloquent of a day when wealth was honoured and respected:  photographs, daguerreotypes in old-fashioned frames bore evidence of friendships of the past, and over the marble mantel hung a portrait of a sweet-faced woman in the costume of the thirties, whose eyes reminded Hodder of Mr. Bentley’s.  Who was she?

Hodder wondered.  Presently he found himself before a photograph on the wall beyond, at which he had been staring unconsciously.

“Ah, you recognize it,” said Mr. Bentley.

“St. John’s!”

“Yes,” Mr. Bentley repeated, “St. John’s.”  He smiled at Hodder’s glance of bewilderment, and put his hand on the younger man’s arm.  “That picture was taken before you were born, sir, I venture to say—­in 1869.  I am very fond of it, for it gives the church in perspective, as you see.  That was Mr. Gore’s house”—­he indicated a square, heavily corniced mansion—­“where the hotel now stands, and that was his garden, next the church, where you see the trees above the wall.”

The rector turned again and looked at his host, who, was gazing at the picture thoughtfully.

“I ought to have remembered,” he said.  “I have seen your name in the church records, sir, and I have heard Mr. Waring speak of you.”

“My dear Mr. Hodder, there is no reason why you should have known me.  A great many years have passed since I was a parishioner of St. John’s —­a great many years.”

“But it was you,” the rector began, uncertainly, and suddenly spoke with conviction, “it was you who chose the architect, who did more than other men to make the church what it is.”

“Whatever I may have done,” replied Mr. Bentley, with simple dignity, “has brought its reward.  To this day I have not ceased to derive pleasure from it, and often I go out of my way, through Burton Street, although the view is cramped.  And sometimes,” he added, with the hint of a twinkle in his eye, “I go in.  This afternoon is not the first time I have seen you, Mr. Hodder.”