Then, as Sergius laughingly said, he had a father confessor on the premises. Yet to-night he had bidden his porter to tell a lie in order to keep his father confessor out. The lie had been vain. Sergius led the way morosely into his drawing-room, and turned on the light. Anthony walked up to the fire, and stretched his tall athletic figure in its long ebon coat. His firm throat rose out of a jam-pot collar, but his thin, strongly-marked face rather suggested an intellectual Hercules than a Mayfair parson, and neither his voice nor his manner was tinged with what so many people consider the true clericalism. For all that he was a splendid curate, as his rector very well knew. Now he stood by the fire for a minute in silence, while Sergius moved uneasily about the room. Presently Anthony turned round. "It's beastly wet," he said in a melodious ringing voice. "The black dog is on me to-night, Sergius." "Oh!" "You don't want to go out, really," Anthony continued, looking narrowly at his friend's curiously rigid face. "Yes, I do." "Not to Curzon Street. They've filled up your place. I told Venables to ask Hugh Graham. I knew he was disengaged to-night. Besides--you're seedy." Sergius frowned. "I'm all right again now," he said coldly, "and I particularly wished to go. You needn't have been so deuced anxious to make the number right." "Well, it's done now. And I can't say I'm sorry, because I want to have a talk with you. I say, Serge, take off those lavender gloves, pull off your coat, let's send out for some dinner, and have a comfortable evening together in here. I've had a hard day's work, and I want a rest." "I must go out presently." "After dinner then." "Before ten o'clock." "Say eleven." "No--that's too late." A violent, though fleeting expression of anxiety crossed Endover's face. Then, with a smile, he said:-- "All right. Shall I ring the bell and order some dinner to be sent in from Galton's?" "If you like. I'm not hungry." "I am." Anthony summoned the servant and gave the order. Then he turned again to Sergius. "Here, I'll help you off with your coat," he said. But Sergius moved away. "No thanks, I'll do it. There are some cigarettes on the mantelpiece." Anthony went to get one. As he was taking it, he looked into the mirror over the fireplace, and saw Sergius--while removing his overcoat--transfer something from it to the left breast pocket of his evening coat. He wanted still to feel his heart beat against that tiny weapon, still to hear--with each pulse of his own heart--the silence, not yet alive, but so soon to be alive, of that other heart. And, as Anthony glanced into the mirror, he said to himself, "I was right!" He withdrew his eyes from the glass and lit his cigarette. Sergius joined him. "I'm in the blues to-night," Anthony said, puffing at his cigarette. "Are you?" "Yes--been down in the East End. The misery there is ghastly."