And then, with sudden gravity, and a glance at my coat sleeve: "I heard of your loss. I know what it means. I lost my mother when I was in Port Arthur, and I know London looked different because of it when I got back. It's a big wrench; one we've all got to face." "Yes. I think my mother died without regret; she was very tired." There was a pause, and then I said: "But I may have chosen my time badly, to-day. Mrs. Van Homrey said you had a conference. If you----" "Tut, tut, man! Don't talk nonsense. I was just going to say how well you'd timed things. I don't know about a conference, but Constance is here, and Varley, and Sir Herbert Tate--he took on the secretaryship of the Army League, you know, after Gilbert chucked it--and Winchester. You know Winchester, the Australian rough-rider, who did such fine work with his bushman corps in the South African war--and--let me see! And Forbes Thompson, the great rifle clubman, you know; _and_ the Canadian preachers--splendid fellows, by Jove! Simply splendid they are, I can tell you. I look for great things from those two. Stairs is English, of course, but he's been nearly all his life in British Columbia and the Northwest, and he's got all the eternal youth, the fire and grit and enthusiasm of the Canadian, with--somehow, something else as well--good. His chum, Reynolds, is an out-and-out Canadian, born in Toronto of Canadian parents. Gad, there's solid timber in that chap, I can tell you. But, look here! Come right in, and take a hand. I'm awfully glad you came. I heard all about _The Mass_ and that; but, bless me, I can see in your eye that that's all past and done with for ever. By the way, I heard last night that your Mr. Clement Blaine had got a job after his own heart, in the pay of the Germans at Chatham--interpreter in the passport office, or some such a thing. What a man! Well, come along in, my dear chap, and give us the benefit of your wisdom." We were leaving the room now. "I knew you'd like Constance," he said. "She's the real thing, isn't she?" I despised myself for the hint of chill his words brought me. What right had I to suspect or resent? And in any case John Crondall spoke in his customary frank way, with never a hint of afterthought. "Yes," I said; "she's splendid." "And such a head-piece, my boy. By Jove, she has a better head for business than---- Here we are, then." Constance Grey was naturally the first to greet me in the big room where John Crondall did his work and met his friends. There was welcome in her beautiful eyes, but, obviously, Constance was very much preoccupied. Then I was presented to Sir Morell Strachey, Sir Herbert Tate, and Forbes Thompson, and then to the Canadian parson, the Rev. George Stairs. I had paid no attention to the name when Crondall had mentioned it in the other room. Now, as he named the parson again, I looked into the man's face, and---- "Mordan? Why, not Dick Mordan, of Tarn Regis?" said the parson.