George Hierons, who was living _en suite_, received Helen in his own private sitting room. He greeted her with a cordial tenderness which could only have sprung from the regard of an honest and a good man. Yet hardly a glance was needed to tell her that not a little of her own acute distress was shared by a true friend. The face of George Hierons was that of a highly sensitive man who was suffering acutely. His visitor was struck by a tragic change in his appearance. Eyes and cheeks had deep hollows, their lines a look of age that mere years did not warrant; and underlying a strong and beautiful face was a torment of pain, stifled and repressed, that Helen could not bear to see. She had the courage to begin with a conventional remark. But Hierons at once made clear that there was no need to withhold anything. He took her hands gently in his own. “You have done a wise thing in coming to see me,” he said without a word of preface. “Tell me just how much you know.” Helen hesitated. John had revealed much as to the workings of the Society, but he had been careful not to disclose the names of its members. She had strong reason to suspect that Hierons belonged to it, but until she was quite sure it would be the height of folly to lay her cards on the table. “You may tell me all,” he said, reading her thoughts without difficulty. “I was with the Council so recently as half past eleven this morning--if it is any satisfaction to you to know that.” “That is to say you belong?” “Yes,” he said, again taking her hands. She could not hide the look of frank horror that came into her eyes. Her impulse was to draw away from him as if he had been a thing unclean. Man of fine perceptions as he was, he yielded instantly to her emotion, not trying to combat it, but stepping back a pace with a slight bow. “You see,” he said in a low voice, “the stake we play for is the highest there is. All that we do, all that we have done, all that we hope to do, is dictated by the faith that the peace of the world depends upon us.” “Do you still believe that?” asked Helen, looking at him steadily. He did not answer at once. With an insurgency of feeling, an odd tightening of her throat and breast, she repeated her question. “Yes,” he said. “That is still our position.” “You honestly think,” said Helen, “that evil can be met with evil? You think that murder can prevent murder?” “In certain extreme cases,” said Hierons, “we hold that view. The Church has failed, Christianity is a back number, one after another the higher moral sanctions are going by the board. Human society is very sick indeed. Only a desperate remedy can save it.” Helen looked bleakly at Hierons. But she didn’t speak.