They had reached, by chance, Platt’s Lane. The door of the workshop stood open as ever. They could hear the sound of Matthew’s hammer and see the red glow of the furnace fire. John slipped away from his father’s side, and going to the open door called to Matthew. Matthew turned. There was a strange look in his eyes. The child laughed, and Matthew coming nearer saw who it was. It was late, so after exchanging just a greeting with Matthew they walked on. Suddenly John caught his father by the sleeve. “Do you think he is still alive,” he said, “Christ Jesus?” Anthony was in a hurry. He had ordered the carriage to wait for them in Bruton Square. “What makes you ask?” he said. “Matthew thinks he is,” explained the child, “and that He still goes about. That is why he always leaves the door open, so that if Christ passes by He may see him and call to him.” Anthony was still worried about the time. He had to see a man on business before going home. He promised little John they would discuss the question some other time. But, as it happened, the opportunity never came. CHAPTER XVI There came a day when Betty returned to take up her residence at The Priory. Since her father’s death she had been travelling. At first she and Anthony had corresponded regularly. They had discussed religion, politics, the science of things in general; he telling her of changes and happenings at home, and she telling him of her discoveries abroad. She wanted to see everything there was to be seen for herself, and then seek to make use of her knowledge; she would, of course, write a book. But after his eldest son’s death, which had happened when the child was about eight years old, Anthony for a time had not cared to write. Added to which there were long periods during which Betty had disappeared into ways untrodden of the postman. Letters had passed between them at ever-lengthening intervals, dealing so far as Anthony was concerned chiefly with business matters. It seemed idle writing about himself: his monotonous prosperity and unclouded domestic happiness. There were times when he would have been glad of a friend to whom he could have trusted secrets, but the thread had been broken. Conscious of strange differences in himself, he could not be sure that Betty likewise had not altered. Her letters remained friendly, often affectionate, but he no longer felt he knew her. Indeed there came to him the doubt that he ever had.