The little gentle voice again--"I shall be delighted to speak to any of those whose consciences are burdened. If any who wish to see me would wait. . . ." The souls are caught for God. Prayers followed, another hymn. Bunning with red eyes has contemplated his sins and is in a glow of excited repentance. It is over. As Olva rose to leave the building he knew that this was not the path for which he was searching. Not here was that terrible Presence. . . . The men poured in a black crowd out into the night. As Olva stepped into the darkness he knew that the terror was only now beginning for him. Standing there now with no sorrow, remorse, repentance, nevertheless he knew that all night, alone in his room, he would be fighting with devils. . . . Bunning, nervously, stammered--"If you don't mind--I think I'm going round for a minute." Olva nodded good-night. As he went on his way to Saul's, grimly, it seemed humorous that "soft-faced" Bunning should be going to confess his thin, miserable little sins. For him, Olva Dune, only a dreadful silence. . . . CHAPTER III THE BODY COMES TO TOWN 1 And after all he slept, slept dreamlessly. He woke to the comfortable accustomed voices of Mrs. Ridge, his bedmaker, and Miss Annett, her assistant. It was a cold frosty morning; the sky showed through the window a cloudless blue. He could hear the deep base voice of Mrs. Ridge in her favourite phrase: "Well, I _don't_ think, Miss Annett. You won't get over me," and Miss Annett's mildly submissive, "I should think _not_ indeed, Mrs. Ridge." Lying back in bed he surveyed with a mild wonder the fact that he had thus, easily, slept. He felt, moreover, that that body had already, in the division of to-day from yesterday, lost much of its haunting power. In the clean freshness of the day, in the comfort of the casual voices of the two women in the other room, in the smell of the coffee, yesterday's melodrama seemed incredible. It had never happened; soon he would see from his window Carfax's hulking body cross the court. No, it was real enough, only it did not concern him. He watched it, as a spectator, indifferent, callous. There _was_ a change in his life, but it was a change of another kind. In the strange consciousness that he now had of some vast and vital Presence, the temporal fact of the thing that he had done lost all importance. There was something that he had got to find, to discover. If--and the possibility seemed large now in the air of this brilliant morning--he were, after all, to escape, he would not rest until he had made his discovery. Some new life was stirring within him. He wanted now to fling himself amongst men; he would play football, he would take his place in the college, he would test everything--leave no stone unturned. No longer a cynical observer, he would be an adventurer . . . if they would let him alone.