reassuringly. "Now follow me: bow to any one who salutes you; but
don't speak a word."

They passed in together through the door, past a couple of
liveried servants who held it open, up the staircase and beyond
up the further flight. The old priest drew out a key and unlocked
the door before them; and together they turned to the left up the
corridor, and passed into a large, pleasant room looking out on
to the street, with a further door communicating, it seemed, with
a bedroom beyond. Fortunately they had met no one on the way.

"Here we are," said Father Jervis cheerfully. "Now, Monsignor, do
you know where you are?"

The other shook his head dolorously.

"Come, come; this is your own room. Look at your writing-table,
Monsignor; where you sit every day."

The other looked at it eagerly and yet vaguely. A half-written
letter, certainly in his own handwriting, lay there on the
blotting-pad, but the name of his correspondent meant nothing to
him; nor did the few words which he read. He looked round the
room--at the bookcases, the curtains, the _prie-Dieu_ . . . And
again terror seized him.

"I know nothing, father . . . nothing at all. It's all new! For
God's sake! . . ."

"Quietly then, Monsignor. It's all perfectly right. . . . Now I'm