An irritated tap of the foot made him realise that it was a customer. He sprang forward with apologies, and, as it had grown dusk, he seized a taper and quickly lighted the gas in the shop. Then he looked at the man and started back in amazement; and the man looked at him; and for a few seconds they remained staring at one another. The visitor wore apron and gaiters and a bishop’s hat, and his dignified presence was that of Everard Chisely. He surveyed Joyce’s grimy and workaday figure with a curl of disgust on his lip. The glance stung Joyce like a taunt. He flushed, drew himself up defiantly. “You are the last person I expected to meet here,” said the Bishop, haughtily. “Your lordship is the last person I desired to see,” retorted Joyce. “Doubtless,” replied the Bishop. “And now we have met, I have only one thing to say to you. I have traced Madame Latour to this house. Where is she?” “She is here--upstairs.” “In this--” began the Bishop, looking round and seeking for a word expressive of distaste. “--hovel?” suggested Joyce. “Yes.” “Under your protection?” “Under my protection.” Then Joyce noticed that his lips twitched, and that the perspiration beaded on his forehead, and that an agony of questioning was in his eyes. “Have you been villain enough--?” he began in a hoarse, trembling voice. But Joyce checked him with a sudden flash and an angry gesture. “Stop! She is as pure as the stars. Let there be no doubt about that. I tell you for her sake, not for yours.” The Bishop drew a long breath and wiped his forehead. Joyce took his silence for incredulity. “If I were a villain,” he continued, “do you think it would matter a brass button to me whether you knew it? I should say ‘yes,’ and you would walk away and I should never see you again.” He thrust his hands in his pockets and faced his cousin. All the pariah’s bitter hatred arose within him against the man who stood there, the representative of the caste that had disowned and reviled him; conscious, too, as he was, of standing for the moment on a higher plane. “I believe you. Oh--indeed--I believe you,” replied Everard, hurriedly. “But why is she here? Why has she sunk as low as this?” “Your lordship should be the last to ask such a question.” “I don’t understand you.” “I should have thought it was obvious,” said Joyce, with a shrug of his shoulders. The sarcasm sounded in the Bishop’s ears like cynicism. “Do you mean that you have inveigled Madame Latour into supporting you?” he asked in a tone of disgust. Joyce laughed mirthlessly.