“One moment, Lord Dynmore, if you please.” This from the archdeacon; and he pressed his interruption, placing himself between the two men, and almost laying his hands on the excited peer. “If there has been a mistake,” he urged, “a few words will make it clear. I fully believe—nay, I feel sure, that my friend here is not in fault, whoever is.” “Ask your questions,” grunted my lord, breathing hard, and eyeing the young clergyman as a terrier eyes the taller dog it means to attack. “He will not answer them, trust me!” “I think he will,” replied the archdeacon with decision. His _esprit de corps_ was rising. The earl’s rude insistance disgusted him. He remarked, his eyes wandering for a moment while he considered how he should frame his question, that another person, Mr. Clode, had silently entered the room, and was listening with a darkly thoughtful face. It occurred to the archdeacon to suggest that the ladies should withdraw, but then again it seemed fair that, as they had heard the charges, they should hear what answer the rector had to make; and he proceeded. “First, Lord Dynmore,” he said, “I must ask you whom you intended to present.” “My old friend, Reginald Lindo, of course.” “His address, please,” continued the archdeacon rather curtly. “Somewhere in the East End of London,” the earl answered. “Oh, I remember now, St. Gabriel’s, Aldgate.” The archdeacon turned silently to the clergyman. “He was my uncle,” Lindo explained gravely. “He died a year ago last October.” “Died!” The exclamation was Lord Dynmore’s. “Yes, died,” the young man retorted bitterly. “Your lordship keeps a watchful eye upon your friends!” The shaft went home. The earl caught a quick breath, and his face changed. The words awoke a slumbering chord in his memory and recalled—not as might have been expected, old days of frolic and sport spent with the friend whose death was thus coldly flung in his face—but a scene in another world. He saw upon the instant a rock-bound valley, inclosed by hills that rose in giant steps to the snowy line of the Andes; and in its depths a tiny hunter’s camp. He saw an Indian fishing in the brook, and near him a white man wandering away—a letter in his hand. Then had come a shot, an alarm, a hasty striking of the tent, and for many hours—even days—a rapid, dangerous march. In the excitement the letter had been forgotten, to be recalled with its tidings here—and now. He winced, and muttered, “Good heavens, and I had heard it.” The clergyman caught the words, and his resentment waxed hot. “My uncle’s death,” he continued grimly, in the tone of one rather making than answering an accusation, “occurred a year before the presentation was offered to me by your solicitors!” “Lord help us!” said the peer in a helpless, bewildered tone. “But are you a clergyman, sir?” “That is a fresh insult, Lord Dynmore!” he replied warmly.