Father Francis was well known to him by reputation. They had been contemporaries at Oxford, but the “Father” was then known as Lord Francis Purbrook, fifth son of the Duke of Portsdown--a wild and dissipated youth. His follies and debaucheries had been continued in the wider world, outside the University; until a strange and sudden change had come to him. He simply said that he had been converted. His old companions sneered, and asserted that he had turned “goody-goody.” But this transformation of his, call it what you will, was obvious to all. Then he had taken Holy Orders, and now was the priest-in-charge of St Stephen’s mission church--a chapel in a side street of Mayfair. His courtesy title had been wholly abandoned, and he was always spoken of as Father Francis. With so much of the past, Herrick, like most Londoners, was well acquainted; but it was not given him to foresee the tragic scene in which the young priest was soon to play a foremost and a fatal part. Herrick, at the moment prosaically absorbed, was mainly bent on catching his train in time for a corner seat in a “smoker”; and here in a few minutes was the station, busy and bustling as ever. Here, too, was Henshaw of Scotland Yard, keenly eyeing continental arrivals from Boulogne _via_ Folkestone. “A lot of foreigners,” said the barrister, as he passed him with a nod. “And a bad lot, too,” was the detective’s comment. There was no time for more; late arrivals were scurrying down the platform. Herrick rushed with the rest; he found a seat; the guard’s whistle and extended hand signalled the departure of the train. They were off and away, wriggling over the railroad network of London, until presently the grim and hideous streets and outskirts of the Surrey side were left behind. The pleasant fields and woods of Kent succeeded to scenes of sordid toil, and still more sordid recreation. The murk and stew of the great town, the hoot of its motors, the hoof-hammer of its jaded horses, the dominant note of its thousands of weary feet--all were left behind. Within three hours the westering sun had set. Eastward, lighthouses sent their first flashing rays across the heaving sea. Westward, the rose and amber of the clouds deepened into purple. The stars came out brighter and brighter in the darkening sky, thousands upon thousands, and tens of thousands--the steps of Allah’s wonderful throne! Herrick and Aldwyth Westwood paced slowly on the Leas. The influence of the magical hour had stolen upon their spirits. They spoke but little, but their hearts were full--full of the tenderness of kindred spirits in harmony with each other and in touch with the infinite. For this wonderful night seemed to reveal the infinite in all the ordered beauty of earth and sky and sea, breathing a message to poor humanity, whispering of ultimate emancipation and high destiny. Later on, they came down, as needs must, from the stars.