She gave him a penetrating glance, and he had to admit, inwardly, that a certain satisfaction followed Miss Grower’s approval.

“Mercy, I have to be going,” she exclaimed, glancing at the black marble clock on the mantel.  “We’ve got a lot of invoices to put through to-day.  See you again, Mr. Holder.”  She jerked his hand once more.  “Good morning, Mr. Bentley.”

“Good morning, Sally.”

Mr. Bentley rose, and took his hat and gold-headed stick from the rack in the hall.

“You mustn’t mind Sally,” he said, when they had reached the sidewalk.  “Sometimes her brusque manner is not understood.  But she is a very extraordinary woman.”

“I can see that,” the rector assented quickly, and with a heartiness that dispelled all doubt of his liking for Miss Grower.  Once more many questions rose to his lips, which he suppressed, since Mr. Bentley volunteered no information.  Hodder became, in fact, so lost in speculation concerning Mr. Bentley’s establishment as to forget the errand on which—­they were bound.  And Sally Grower’s words, apropos of the woman in the flat, seemed but an energetic driving home of the severe lessons of his recent experiences.  And how blind he had been, he reflected, not to have seen the thing for himself!  Not to have realized the essential artificiality of his former method of approach!  And then it struck him that Sally Grower herself must have had a history.

Mr. Bentley, too, was preoccupied.

Presently, in the midst of these thoughts, Hodder’s eyes were arrested by a crowd barring the sidewalk on the block ahead; no unusual sight in that neighbourhood, and yet one which aroused in him sensations of weakness and nausea.  Thus were the hidden vice and suffering of these sinister places occasionally brought to light, exposed to the curious and morbid stares of those whose own turn might come on the morrow.  It was only by degrees he comprehended that the people were gathered in front of the house to which they were bound.  An ambulance was seen to drive away:  it turned into the aide street in front of them.

“A city ambulance!” the rector exclaimed.

Mr. Bentley did not reply.

The murmuring group which overflowed the uneven brick pavement to the asphalt was characteristic:  women in calico, drudges, women in wrappers, with sleepy, awestricken faces; idlers, men and boys who had run out of the saloons, whose comments were more audible and caustic, and a fringe of children ceaselessly moving on the outskirts.  The crowd parted at their approach, and they reached the gate, where a burly policeman, his helmet in his hand, was standing in the morning sunlight mopping his face with a red handkerchief.  He greeted Mr. Bentley respectfully, by name, and made way for them to pass in.

“What is the trouble, Ryan?” Mr. Bentley asked.

“Suicide, sir,” the policeman replied.  “Jumped off the bridge this morning.  A tug picked him up, but he never came to—­the strength wasn’t in him.  Sure it’s all wore out he was.  There was a letter on him, with the home number, so they knew where to fetch him.  It’s a sad case, sir, with the woman in there, and the child gone to the hospital not an hour ago.”