They looked at each other apprehensively, and for this reason: they were not talking of two ordinary men and their doings. Both felt this strongly. There had been too many unusual and inexplicable occurrences in connection with Joseph's accident and arrival at the hospital for either Mary or Hampson to disregard any seeming coincidence. Both knew, both had always felt, that they were spectators of--or, rather, actors in--a drama upon which the curtain had but lately risen. "When did you last hear from Joseph?" Mary asked. Hampson mentioned the date. It was, though, of course, he did not know it, the date of Joseph's strange experience upon the midnight moor, the date on which he had been struck down, and on which his second illness began. "It was at that time that I received my last letter from my brother," the girl answered--"the exact day, in fact. The letter troubled me when it came; it has troubled me ever since. It spoke of the end of his work here, hinted that he felt he had almost done what he was sent into the world to do, though at the same time he bade me prepare myself for great events immediately imminent." There was a silence in the big, bare reception-room. Mary broke it. "What a dreadful day it is, Mr. Hampson," she said, with an effort to give the conversation a less gloomy turn. "I have rarely seen the fog lie so low over town. Oh, for a breath of fresh air--just five short minutes of fresh, unclouded air! I think I would give almost anything for that at this moment." A sudden thought came to the journalist. "Do you know, nurse," he said, "I think I am one of the few men in London who can give you just what you ask at this moment; that is, if you don't mind doing something slightly unconventional?" "Oh, convention!" she answered, with the serene smile of the high-natured woman for whom the world has no terrors. Hampson explained where he was bound when he left the hospital, and for what purpose. There would be no difficulty in the matter at all, if Mary cared to accompany him to the roof of the cathedral. It was certain, also, that the dome would rise high above the low belt of fog which was stifling London. Mary had three hours at her own disposal. In ten minutes they were driving to the great church. When they had ascended to the roof of St. Paul's they found the fog was not so dense. The sun was setting over the modern Babylon. Hampson pointed down at the nether gloom. "Vanity Fair!" he said. "Vanity Fair! What would Jesus Christ say to London if He came to it now?" As he spoke the breeze suddenly freshened, the fog clouds took new shapes, the light of the western sun grew in the dark. And then a thing happened that set their hearts beating furiously. Right ahead in the gloom, flashing, flame-like, clear-cut, and distinct, a mighty cross hung over London.