Swiftly, drinking great draughts of the night air, he set off home. It was drizzling slightly, but he did not notice it. Staring straight ahead, he found himself hardly able to think, only dimly aware of street-lamps and great, black, velvet spaces. He was plainly not to be accosted in Piccadilly. In Knightsbridge, the streets emptier, he began to feel released. But not till he was in his own room at the hotel, and had thrown off his coat and bathed his face and sunk by his bed with his head in his hands, was he able to formulate his thoughts. Then they came, in a torrential flood. He, Paul Kestern, called of God, destined for the ministry, even now at odds in his own inmost heart and with his best-beloved parents for the truth of Christ, had been drunk and had gone to a music hall. He was all superlatives and saw no door of escape for his soul. But to do him justice, it was not his own soul that he worried about. He scarcely thought of himself. He had indeed been thinking of himself most of the evening, but now he thought of his Master. "One is your Master, even Christ." His tortured conscience painted vividly to him the scene upon which he had dwelt often enough--the open courtyard; the fire in the corner, where the light leaped and danced on wall and gate; the sudden opening of a door; the buzz of voices, cries, torch-lights; the coward Apostle starting to his feet, while the guard felt for spears and came to attention; the passing of a young erect Figure with set face, Whose cheek was already reddened with a blow; and the turning of the head, so that the eyes of prisoner and betrayer met on an instant. He, Paul, had forgotten his Master. He, Paul, had denied his Master. He, Paul, had been shown the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, and had fallen at the feet of the tempter. Peter had gone out and wept bitterly, with the memory of a look. Paul, then, tried to pierce the darkness and see. He did not sit by the fire and wait; he was up, in his soul, and out, searching for Him. In broken sentences, he was crying his confession, renewing his pledges, seeking for pardon. But it was to-night as though for long he sought in vain. "Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow," he prayed, and Manning's voice came echoing back: "How in the world can blood wash me clean?" He turned to stray phrases of the old hymns: "While others Thou art saving, do not pass me by," and Mr. Stuart presented himself before him, suave, smiling, and with the ghost of a voice: "Well, dear boys, have you given your hearts to Jesus? Is there one here who has not?"