There was a long silence, during which Bent sat with bowed head gazing on the earthen floor, while the bead in his throat performed its most active gymnastics. At last he lifted his eyes and fixed them on the tight red face of his companion. “When did your faith fail you?” he asked. The other considered him humorously. “Why—when I got onto this job, I guess.” Willard Bent rose and held out his hand. “Good-bye.... I must go.... If I can be of any use ... you know where to find me....” “Any use? Say, old man, what’s wrong? Are you trying to shake me?” Bent was silent, and Harry Spink continued insidiously: “Ain’t you a mite hard on me? I thought the heathen was just what you was laying for.” Bent smiled mournfully. “There’s no use trying to convert a renegade.” “That what I am? Well—all right. But how about the others? Say—let’s order a lap of tea and have it out right here.” Bent seemed to hesitate; but at length he rose, put back the matting that screened the inner room, and said a word to the proprietor. Presently a scrofulous boy with gazelle eyes brought a brass tray bearing glasses and pipes of _kif_, gazed earnestly at the stranger in the linen duster, and slid back behind the matting. “Of course,” Bent began, “a good many people know I am a Baptist missionary”—(“_No?_” from Spink, incredulously)—“but in the crowd of the bazaar they don’t notice me, and I hear things....” “Golly! I should suppose you did.” “I mean, things that may be useful. You know Mr. Blandhorn’s idea....” A tinge of respectful commiseration veiled the easy impudence of the drummer’s look. “The old man still here, is he?” “Oh, yes; of course. He will never leave Eloued.” “And the missus—?” Bent again lowered his naturally low voice. “She died—a year ago—of the climate. The doctor had warned her; but Mr. Blandhorn felt a call to remain here.” “And she wouldn’t leave without him?” “Oh, _she_ felt a call too ... among the women....” Spink pondered. “How many years you been here, Willard?” “Ten next July,” the other responded, as if he had added up the weeks and months so often that the reply was always on his lips. “And the old man?” “Twenty-five last April. We had planned a celebration ... before Mrs. Blandhorn died. There was to have been a testimonial offered ... but, owing to her death, Mr. Blandhorn preferred to devote the sum to our dispensary.” “I see. How much?” said Spink sharply. “It wouldn’t seem much to you. I believe about fifty pesetas....” “Two pesetas a year? Lucky the Society looks after you, ain’t it?” Willard Bent met his ironic glance steadily. “We’re not here to trade,” he said with dignity. “No—that’s right too—” Spink reddened slightly. “Well, all I meant was—look at here, Willard, we’re old friends, even if I did go wrong, as I suppose you’d call it. I was in this thing near on a year myself, and what always tormented me was this: _What does it all amount to?_” “Amount to?”