He had argued, expostulated, threatened, but the officials were like men possessed. Half of them had disappeared in the rush to the City, for it had leaked out, in spite of the Government’s precautions, that Paul’s House, known once as St. Paul’s Cathedral, was to be the scene of Felsenburgh’s reception. The others seemed demented; one man on the platform had dropped dead from nervous exhaustion, but no one appeared to care; and the body lay huddled beneath a seat. Again and again Percy had been swept away by a rush, as he struggled from platform to platform in his search for a car that would take him to Croydon. It seemed that there was none to be had, and the useless carriages collected like drift-wood between the platforms, as others whirled up from the country bringing loads of frantic, delirious men, who vanished like smoke from the white rubber-boards. The platforms were continually crowded, and as continually emptied, and it was not until half-an-hour before midnight that the block began to move outwards again. Well, he was here at last, dishevelled, hatless and exhausted, looking up at the dark windows. He scarcely knew what he thought of the whole matter. War, of course, was terrible. And such a war as this would have been too terrible for the imagination to visualise; but to the priest’s mind there were other things even worse. What of universal peace--peace, that is to say, established by others than Christ’s method? Or was God behind even this? The questions were hopeless. Felsenburgh--it was he then who had done this thing--this thing undoubtedly greater than any secular event hitherto known in civilisation. What manner of man was he? What was his character, his motive, his method? How would he use his success?... So the points flew before him like a stream of sparks, each, it might be, harmless; each, equally, capable of setting a world on fire. Meanwhile here was an old woman who desired to be reconciled with God before she died.... * * * * * He touched the button again, three or four times, and waited. Then a light sprang out overhead, and he knew that he was heard. “I was sent for,” he exclaimed to the bewildered maid. “I should have been here at twenty-two: I was prevented by the rush.” She babbled out a question at him. “Yes, it is true, I believe,” he said. “It is peace, not war. Kindly take me upstairs.” He went through the hall with a curious sense of guilt. This was Brand’s house then--that vivid orator, so bitterly eloquent against God; and here was he, a priest, slinking in under cover of night. Well, well, it was not of his appointment. At the door of an upstairs room the maid turned to him. “A doctor, sir?” she said. “That is my affair,” said Percy briefly, and opened the door. * * * * * A little wailing cry broke from the corner, before he had time to close the door again.