In his hand he held a copy of the last edition of _The Sentinel_, and now he spread the paper across the desk before the clergyman’s eye. The same old headline was there, "HELD TO ANSWER," but in the center of the page was a frame or box which contained a half-tone, a smear, and a short column of black-face type, both words and figures. Hampstead saw at a glance that it was a printed copy of his Bertillon record. The smear was his thumb print; the picture was his picture, a half-tone of the bald, unretouched photograph of himself which had been made for the Gallery of Rogues, and across the bottom of the picture was a suggestive space, in which was printed: "No.——?" The inference sought to be conveyed was clear. So great was the sense of pain which Hampstead felt that it was reflected in the glance he turned upon the Elder, a glance that came as near to an appeal for pity as any that had yet been in the clergyman’s eye. But it met no response from the stern old Puritan. "Be seated!" the minister said, a trifle sadly. "I can say what I’ve got to say better if I stand," replied the Elder tersely. "Of course you’ll resign!" A look of intense surprise crossed the face of Hampstead. "Resign what?" he asked, with raised brows. "Why, the pulpit of All People’s!" The minister stared in amazement. Burbeck also stared, but in impatience, during an interval of silence in which Hampstead had full opportunity to weigh again the manner of his visitor and appraise its meaning. "No," the young man replied within a minute, firmly but almost without inflection, "I shall not resign." "Then," declared Burbeck aggressively, "the pulpit of All People’s will be declared vacant." The Elder’s chin was raised, and implacable resolution was photographed upon his features. Again Hampstead paused, and weighed and sounded the really sterling character of this honest old man, whose pride was as inflexible and undeviating as the rule of his moral life. He saw him not as a fanatical vengeance, but as a father. He thought of Rollie, of the man’s pride in his son, and of what a crushing blow it would be to him to know the plight in which that son really stood to-day. It brought to him the memory of something he had read somewhere: "The more you do for a man, the easier it is to love him and to forgive him." His feeling now was not of resentment, but of sympathy. He felt very sorry for the Elder and for the position in which he stood. "Why, Brother Burbeck," he reproached softly, "All People’s would not do that. You would not let them do that. When you have stopped to think, you would not let me resign even. If I am convicted by a jury, I should have to resign; but a jury would not convict, I think. Besides, many things can happen before that. My accuser, who knows I am innocent, might relent. It is even more conceivable that a condition might arise under which the thief could speak out, and I should be vindicated."