The women travellers, as the lights of the capital grew more numerous, and the roar of the traffic louder and more constant, drew back within themselves, assuming, unconsciously, the outward bearing--fatigued, sceptical, and self-distrustful--of the town-bred. When they reached Curzon Street, the two heaps of letters, the telegrams and cards on the hall-table symbolised crudely enough the practical side of daily affairs. One name--an unknown one--among the many engraved on the white scraps caught Brigit's attention at once: _The Rev. J. M. Foster._ "That gentleman is a priest, Madam," said the butler; "he will call again this evening. I told him that we expected you and her Ladyship about seven." For some reason she felt alarmed. All that day and the night before she had been agitated by an inexplicable dread of strange tidings. She went to her room, but, without removing her travelling cloak or her hat, she sat down on the edge of her bed, waiting for some summons. Presently it came. Father Foster was in the library with Lady Fitz Rewes. Would Mrs. Parflete see him? She went down, and Pensée stood watching for her at the open door. "My poor child!" she said, with a sob in her voice, as she drew Brigit into the room. "My poor child," she repeated, "Father Foster has come to tell us that--that Mr. Parflete died last night." The priest stepped forward with the decision, and also the stern kindness, of those accustomed to break hard messages. "He was injured in a quarrel, and died from the effect of the wound. He declined to give any particulars of the affair, and I fear we must call it a mystery. He asked me to say that his last words to you were these: _Amate da cui male aveste_--Love those from whom ye have had evil." He looked at her compassionately as he spoke, wondering, no doubt, how great the evil had been. "Can I go to him?" asked Brigit; "where is he?" "Where he died--in his room at the hotel." "I will go with you," said Pensée. She held Brigit's hand, and exchanged a long glance with Father Foster. "Did you say," she asked, "that he left any letters or papers?" "He destroyed all his papers, but he has left one letter addressed to you. He wished me to say, in the presence of Mrs. Parflete, that this had reference to some false report about her visiting Mr. Orange's lodgings. Mr. Parflete saw the lady who went to Vigo Street, and he did not know who she was. One thing, however, he did know: he had never seen her before." Brigit inclined her head, but remained motionless, where she first halted when she entered the room. "Did he die in pain?" she asked. "I am afraid he suffered greatly." "Was his mind at peace?" "I believe so--from my heart." "He had less to fear from God than man." "The justice of God is severe," said the priest, "but He can never make mistakes. The hardest cruelties in this life are the mistakes which we commit in judging others--perhaps in judging ourselves."