Brandon stared at the fire as though absorbed by its light. What did he see there? Visions perhaps? Did he see the Cathedral, the Precincts, the quiet circle of demure old houses, his own door, his own bedroom? Did he see his wife moving hurriedly about the room, opening drawers and shutting them, pausing for a moment to listen, then coming out, closing the door, listening again, then stepping downstairs, pausing for a moment in the hall to lay something on the table, then stepping out into the green wavering evening light? Or did the flames make pictures for him of the deserted railway-station, the long platform, lit only by one lamp, two figures meeting, exchanging almost no word, pacing for a little in silence the dreary spaces, stepping back as the London express rolled in--such a safe night to choose for escape--then burying themselves in it like rabbits in their burrow? Did his vision lead him back to the deserted house, silent save for its ticking clocks, black in that ring of lights and bells and shouting voices? Or was he conscious only of the warmth and the life of the fire, of some sudden companionship with the woman bending over it to stir the sticks and lift some pot from the heart of the flame? He was feeling, perhaps, a sudden peace here and a silence, and was aware of the stars breaking into beauty one by one above his head. But his peace, if for a moment he had found it, was soon interrupted. A voice that he knew came across to him from the other side of the fire. "Why, Archdeacon, who would have thought to find you here?" He looked up and saw, through the fire, the face of Davray the painter. He turned to go, and at once Davray was at his side. "No. Don't go. You're in my country now, Archdeacon, not your own. You're not cock of _this_ walk, you know. Last time we met you thought you owned the place. Well, you can't think you own this. Fight it out, Mr. Archdeacon, fight it out." Brandon answered: "I have no quarrel with you, Mr. Davray. Nor have I anything to say to you." "No quarrel? I like that. I'd knock your face in for two-pence, you blasted hypocrite. And I will too. All free ground here." Davray's voice was shrill. He was swaying on his legs. The woman looked up from the fire and watched them. Brandon turned his back to him and saw, facing him, Samuel Hogg and some men behind him. "Why, good evening, Mr. Archdeacon," said Hogg, taking off his hat and bowing. "What a delightful place for a meeting!" Brandon said quietly, "Is there anything you want with me?" He realised at once that Hogg was drunk.