Holder pushed past him and looked into the carriage. Leaning back,
motionless, in the corner of the seat was the figure of a man. For a
terrible moment of premonition, of enlightenment, the rector gazed at it.

"They sent for me from a family hotel in Ayers Street," the driver was
explaining. Mr. Bentley's voice interrupted him.

"He must be brought in, at once. Do you know where Dr. Latimer's office
is, on Tower Street?" he asked the man. "Go there, and bring this
doctor back with you as quickly as possible. If he is not in, get
another, physician."

Between them, the driver and Holder got the burden out of the carriage
and up the steps. The light from the hallway confirmed the rector's
fear.

"It's Preston Parr," he said.

The next moment was too dreadful for surprise, but never had the sense of
tragedy so pierced the innermost depths of Holder's being as now, when
Horace Bentley's calmness seemed to have forsaken him; and as he gazed
down upon the features on the pillow, he wept . . . . Holder turned
away. Whatever memories those features evoked, memories of a past that
still throbbed with life these were too sacred for intrusion. The years
of exile, of uncomplaining service to others in this sordid street and
over the wide city had not yet sufficed to allay the pain, to heal the
wound of youth. Nay, loyalty had kept it fresh--a loyalty that was the
handmaid of faith. . .

The rector softly left the room, only to be confronted with another