There was evidently no way to find out at once, and suspense would be unbearable, in vain he told himself that these thoughts were nonsense, the discomfort persisted, and he had visions of that career in which he had become one of the first citizens and the respected husband of Charlotte Gore clashing down about his ears.  Why?  Because a clergyman should choose to be quixotic, fanatical?  He did not took quixotic, fanatical, Mr. Plimpton had to admit,—­but a good deal saner than he, Mr. Plimpton, must have appeared at that moment.  His throat was dry, and he didn’t dare to make the attempt to relight his cigar.

“There’s nothing like getting together—­keeping in touch with people, Mr. Hodder,” he managed to say.  “I’ve been out of town a good deal this summer—­putting on a little flesh, I’m sorry to admit.  But I’ve been meaning to drop into the parish house and talk over those revised plans with you.  I will drop in—­in a day or two.  I’m interested in the work, intensely interested, and so is Mrs. Plimpton.  She’ll help you.  I’m sorry you can’t lunch with me.”

He had the air, now, of the man who finds himself disagreeably and unexpectedly closeted with a lunatic; and his language, although he sought to control it, became even a trifle less coherent.

“You must make allowances for us business men, Mr. Hodder.  I mean, of course, we’re sometimes a little lax in our duties—­in the summer, that is.  Don’t shoot the pianist, he’s doing his—­ahem!  You know the story.

“By the way, I hear great things of you; I’m told it’s on the cards that you’re to be made a bishop.”

“Oh,” answered the rector, “there are better men mentioned than I!”

“I want you to know this,” said his vestryman, as he seized Hodder’s hand, “much as we value you here, bitterly as we should hate to lose you, none of us, I am sure, would stand in the way of such a deserved advancement.”

“Thank you, Mr. Plimpton,” said the rector.

Mr. Plimpton watched the vigorous form striding through the great chamber until it disappeared.  Then he seized his hat and made his way as rapidly as possible through the crowds to the Parr Building.  At the entrance of the open-air roof garden of the Eyrie he ran into Nelson Langmaid.

“You’re the very man I’m after,” said Mr. Plimpton, breathlessly.  “I stopped in your office, and they said you’d gone up.”

“What’s the matter, Wallis?” inquired the lawyer, tranquilly.  “You look as if you’d lost a couple of bonds.”

I’ve just seen Hodder, and he is going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Sit down here, at this table in the corner, and I’ll tell you.”

For a practical man, it must be admitted that Mr. Plimpton had very little of the concrete to relate.  And it appeared on cross-examination by Mr. Langmaid, who ate his cold meat and salad with an exasperating and undiminished appetite—­that the only definite thing the rector had said was that he didn’t intend to preach socialism.  This was reassuring.