Canon Walke, the great popular preacher, was a handsome man, portly, large, and gracious in manner. He was destined for high preferment, a _persona grata_ at Court, suave and redolent of the lofty circles in which he moved. Canon Walke was talking to Schuabe with great animation and a sort of purring geniality. Dinner was a very pleasant meal. Every one talked well. Great events in Society and politics were discussed by the people who were themselves responsible for them. Here was the inner circle itself, serene, bland, and guarded from the crowd outside. And perhaps, with the single exception of Father Ripon, who never thought about it at all, every one was pleasantly conscious of pulling the strings. They sat, Jove-like, kindly tolerant of lesser mortals, discussing, over a dessert, what they should do for the world. At eleven nearly every one had retired for the night. Father Ripon and his host sat talking in the library for another hour discussing church matters. At twelve these two also retired. And now the great house was silent save for the bitter winter wind which sobbed and moaned round the towers. It was the eve of the twelfth of December. The world was as usual and the night came to England with no hintings of the morrow. Far away in Lancashire, Basil Gortre was sleeping calmly after a long, quiet evening with Helena and her father. Father Ripon had said his prayers and lay half dreaming in bed, watching the firelight glows and shadows on the panelling and listening to the fierce outside wind as if it were a lullaby. Mrs. Hubert Armstrong was touching up an article for the _Nineteenth Century_ in her bedroom. An open volume of Renan stood by her side; here and there the lady deftly paraphrased a few lines. Occasionally she sipped a cup of black-currant tea--an amiable weakness of this paragon when engaged upon her stirring labours. In the next room Schuabe, with haggard face and twitching lips, paced rapidly up and down. From the door to the dressing-table--seven steps. From there to the fireplace--ten steps--avoiding the flower pattern of the carpet, stepping only on the blue squares. Seven! ten! and then back again. Ten, seven, turn. A cold, soft dew came out upon his face, dried, hardened, and burst forth again. Seven, ten, stop for a glass of water, and then on again, rapidly, hurriedly; the dawn is coming very near. Ten! seven! turn! CHAPTER III "I, JOSEPH" At about nine o'clock the next morning there was a knock at Father Ripon's door and Lindner, Sir Michael's confidential man, entered. He seemed slightly agitated. "I beg your pardon, Father," he said, "but Sir Michael instructed me to come to you at once. Sir Michael begs that you will read the columns marked in this paper and then join him at once in his own room." The man bowed slightly and went noiselessly away.