He lifted the wire screens and flung back the shutters, beamed on the rector as he relieved him of his hat, and noiselessly retired. Curiosity, hitherto suppressed by more powerful feelings, awoke in Hodder speculations which ordinarily would have been aroused before: every object in the room bespoke gentility, was eloquent of a day when wealth was honoured and respected: photographs, daguerreotypes in old-fashioned frames bore evidence of friendships of the past, and over the marble mantel hung a portrait of a sweet-faced woman in the costume of the thirties, whose eyes reminded Hodder of Mr. Bentley's. Who was she? Hodder wondered. Presently he found himself before a photograph on the wall beyond, at which he had been staring unconsciously. "Ah, you recognize it," said Mr. Bentley. "St. John's!" "Yes," Mr. Bentley repeated, "St. John's." He smiled at Hodder's glance of bewilderment, and put his hand on the younger man's arm. "That picture was taken before you were born, sir, I venture to say--in 1869. I am very fond of it, for it gives the church in perspective, as you see. That was Mr. Gore's house"--he indicated a square, heavily corniced mansion--"where the hotel now stands, and that was his garden, next the church, where you see the trees above the wall." The rector turned again and looked at his host, who, was gazing at the picture thoughtfully. "I ought to have remembered," he said. "I have seen your name in the church records, sir, and I have heard Mr. Waring speak of you." "My dear Mr. Hodder, there is no reason why you should have known me. A great many years have passed since I was a parishioner of St. John's --a great many years." "But it was you," the rector began, uncertainly, and suddenly spoke with conviction, "it was you who chose the architect, who did more than other men to make the church what it is." "Whatever I may have done," replied Mr. Bentley, with simple dignity, "has brought its reward. To this day I have not ceased to derive pleasure from it, and often I go out of my way, through Burton Street, although the view is cramped. And sometimes," he added, with the hint of a twinkle in his eye, "I go in. This afternoon is not the first time I have seen you, Mr. Hodder." "But--?" said the rector. He stared at the other's face, and the question died on his lips. "You wonder why I am no longer a parishioner. The time came when I could not afford to be." There was no hint of reproach in his voice, of bitterness. He spoke regretfully, indeed, but as one stating an incontrovertible fact. "I lost my fortune, I could not keep my pew, so I deeded it back to the church. My old friends, Mrs. Dimock and Asa Waring, and others, too, were very kind. But I could not accept their hospitality." Hodder bowed his head in silence. What thundered indictment of the Church of Christ could have been as severe, as wholly condemning as these few words so dispassionately uttered by the man beside him?