was plain--an open door under a vast white signboard dingily lettered
"The Salvation Army." It loomed through the smoke and the street lights
like a discovery.

"Our peripatetic friends," said Arnold, with his rare smile; and, as if
the music seized and held them, they stood listening.

"I've got a Saviour that's mighty to keep
All day on Sunday, and six days a week!
I've got a Saviour that's mighty to keep
Fifty-two weeks in the year."

It was immensely vigourous; the men looked at each other with fresh
animation. Responding to the mere physical appeal of it, they picked
their steps across the street to the door, and there hesitated, revolted
in different ways. Perhaps I have forgotten to say that Lindsay came to
Calcutta out of an Aberdeenshire manse, and had a mother before whose
name people wrote "The Hon." Besides, the singing had stopped, and
casual observation from the street was checked by a screen.

"I have wondered sometimes what their methods really are," said Arnold.

Their methods were just on the other side of the screen. A bullet-headed
youth, in a red coat with gold letters on the shoulder, fingering a
forage-cap, slunk out round the end of this impediment, passing the two
men beside the door, and a light, clear voice seemed to call after him--

"Ah! don't go away!"

Lindsay was visited by a flash of memory and a whimsical speculation