One part of her mother’s revelation was true then, and so might the rest be. Rhoda knew that Frederick was a Catholic, but also that he had been a very lax one, as he had been lax in everything else, and could not help wondering what on earth he could be doing in a college. And, whilst sheltered within its walls, what danger could threaten him? He had been such a joyous, devil-may-care young fellow when she knew him, that she could not fancy him mured up in a religious house. What sympathy could he have with its inmates? What pleasure could he derive from its customs or mode of living? However, she would fulfil her mission, whether her warnings were needed or not. It was a long journey down to Southwark, but Rhoda reached it at last, and found her way, by dint of inquiries, to Canon Bulfil’s college. It was a large, red brick building, more like a jail than anything else she could liken it to, and Rhoda felt very timid as she pulled the iron chain which sustained the bell, and heard the loud echoes it evoked in the vaulted hall beyond. It was answered by a lay brother, who demanded, in a grave voice, what was her business. ‘I have come with a packet and message for Mr Frederick Walcheren, and wish to see him,’ replied Rhoda. The man unlocked the massive door, and admitted her to a cold-looking passage with brick walls, unpapered and unpainted. ‘What name shall I say?’ asked the lay brother, as if he were conducting a funeral. ‘Say, please, that I have come from Mrs Pattison,’ replied Rhoda, who had ascertained that was the name of the tenant of the flat in Nevern Mansions. After what appeared to her to be an unconscionable delay, the man returned and ushered her into a parlour, the only furniture in which was a piece of matting on the oaken floor, a large table, four rush-bottomed chairs, and a fald stool placed in front of an oil painting of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin. Rhoda, remembering the luxury in which Frederick Walcheren used to live and revel in, thought it all very cold-looking and uncomfortable and precise, and wondered how he enjoyed himself there, and what could make him stay. In a few minutes the door opened, and Frederick himself appeared. For the first moment, Rhoda did not recognise him. His dark hair was cut close to his head, he had shaved off his moustache, and wore a long, black cassock, which reached to his heels. His face was pale and careworn, and darker than usual. As he recognised his visitor, he gave a slight cry and staggered to a chair. ‘Rhoda,’ he exclaimed, faintly, ‘what on earth have you come to see me for?’ CHAPTER VII. The girl was almost as taken aback as he was. ‘Is this you, Fred?’ she said, in a tone of the utmost astonishment. ‘What have you done to yourself? I hardly knew you.’ But he only asked again,-- ‘Why have you come? What do you want with me? I thought our acquaintanceship was at an end.’