"I have read," said Kenneth Mornington, standing in the station of a
small village some seven miles across country from Fardles, "that Paris
dominates France. I wish London dominated England in the matter of
weather."
Further letters exchanged between him and the Archdeacon had led to an
agreement that he should spend the first Sunday of his holiday at the
Rectory, arriving for lunch on the Saturday. The Saturday morning in
London had been brilliant, and he had thought it would be pleasanter to
walk along the chord of the monstrous arc which the railway made. But it
had grown dull as the train left the London suburbs, and even as he
jumped from his compartment the first drops of rain began to fall. By
the time he had reached the outer exit they had grown to a steady
drizzle, and the train had left the station.
Kenneth turned up his collar and set out; the way at least was known to
him. "But why," he said, "do I always get out at the wrong times? If I
had gone on I should have had to sit at Fardles station for an hour and
a half, but I should have been dry. It is this sheep-like imitation of
Adam which annoys me. Adam got out at the wrong time. But he was made to
by the railway authorities. I will write," he thought, and took to a
footpath, "the diary of a man who always got out at the wrong time,
beginning with a Caesarean operation. And let the angel whom thou still
hast served Tell thee Macduff was from his mother's womb untimely
ripped. _A Modern Macduff_, one might call it. And d**h? He might die
inopportunely, before the one in advance had been moved on, so that all
the angels on the line of his spiritual progress found themselves
crowded with two souls instead of the one they were prepared for.
"Agitation in Heaven. Excursionist unable to return. Trains to Paradise
overcrowded. Strange scenes at the stations. Seraph Michael says rules
to be enforced." Stations...stages...it sounds like Theosophy. Am I
a Theosophist? Oh, Lord, it's worse than ever; I can't walk to a strange
Rectory through seven miles of this."
In a distance he discerned a shed by the side of the road, broke into a
run, and, reaching it, took shelter with a bound which landed him in a
shallow puddle lying just within the dark entrance. "Oh, damn and
blast!" he cried with a great voice. "Why was this bloody world
created?"
"As a sewer for the stars," a voice in front of him said.
"Alternatively, to know God and to glorify Him for ever."
Kenneth peered into the shed, and found that there was sitting on a heap
of stones at the back a young man of about his own age, with a lean,
long face, and a blob of white on his knee which turned out in a few
minutes to be a writing pad.
"Quite," Kenneth said. "The two answers are not, of course, necessarily
alternative. They might be con-con consanguineous? contemporaneous?
consubstantial? What is the word I want?"
"Contemptible, concomitant, conditional, consequential, congruous,
connectible, concupiscent, contaminable, considerable," the stranger
offered him. "The last is, I admit, weak."
"The question was considerable," Kenneth answered. "You no doubt are
considering it? You are even writing the answer down?"
"A commentary upon it," the other said. "But consanguineous was the word
I wanted, or its brother." He wrote.
Kenneth sat down on the same heap of stones and watched till the writing
was finished, then he said: "Circumstances almost suggest, don't you
think, that I might hear the context--if it's what it looks?"
"Context--there's another," the stranger said. "Contextual 'And that
contextual meaning flows Through all our man*scripts of rose.' Rose?
Persia? Hafix--Ispahan. Perhaps rose is a little ordinary. 'And that
contextual meaning streams Through all our man*scripts of dreams."'
"Oh, no, no," Mornington broke in firmly. "That's far too minor. Perhaps
something modern--'And that impotent contextual meaning stinks In all
our man*scripts, of no matter what coloured inks.' Better be modern than
minor."
"I agree," the other said. "But a man must fulfil his destiny, even to
minority. Shall I 'think the complete universe must be Subject to such a
rag of it as me?'"
He was interrupted by Kenneth kicking the earth with his heels and
crying: "At last! at last! 'Terror of darkness! O thou king of flames!'
I didn't think there was another living man who knew George Chapman."
The stranger caught his arm. "Can you?" he said, made a gesture with his
free hand, and began, Mornington's voice joining in after the first few
words:
_"That with thy music--footed horse dost strike
The clear light out of crystal on dark earth,
And hurl'st instructive, fire about the world."_
The conversation for the next ten minutes became a duet, and it was only
at the end that Kenneth said with a sigh: "'I have lived long enough,
having seen one thing.' But before I die--the context of
consanguineous?"
The stranger picked up his man*script and read:
_"How does thy single heart possess
A double mode of happiness
In quiet and in busyness!
Profundities of utter peace
Do their own vehemence release
Through rippling toils that never cease.
Yet of those ripples' changing mood,
Thou, ignorant at heart, dost brood
In a most solemn quietude.
Thus idleness and industry
Within that laden heart of thee
Find their rich consanguinity."_
"Yes," Kenneth murmured, "yes. A little minor, but rather beautiful."
"The faults, or rather the follies, are sufficiently obvious," the
stranger said. "Yet I flatter myself it reflects the lady."
"You have printed?" Kenneth asked seriously, for they were now
discussing important things, and in answer the other jumped to his feet
and stood before him. "I have printed," he said, "and you are the only
man--besides the publisher--who knows about it."
"Really?" Mornington asked.
"Yes," said the stranger. "You will understand the horrible position I'm
in if I tell you my name. I am Aubrey Duncan Peregrine Mary de Lisle
D'Estrange, Duke of the North Ridings, Marquis of Craigmullen and
Plessing, Earl and Viscount, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, Knight of
the Sword and Cape, and several other ridiculous fantasies."
Mornington pinched his lip. "Yes, I see," he said. "That must make it
difficult to do anything with poetry."
"Difficult," the other said, with almost a shout. "It makes it
impossible."
"Oh well, come," Kenneth said; "impossible? You can publish, and the
reviews at least won't flatter you."
"It isn't the _reviews_," the Duke said. "It's just chatting with people
and being the fellow who's written a book or two--not very good books,
but _his_ books, and being able to quote things, and so on. How can I
quote things to the people who come to see _me_? How can I ask the Bishop
what he thinks of my stuff or tell him what I think of his? What will
the Earl my cousin say about the Sitwells?"
"No, quite," Mornington answered, and for a few minutes the two young
men looked at one another. Then the Duke grinned. "It's so _silly_," he
said. "I really do care about poetry, and I think some of my stuff might
be almost possible. But I can never find it anywhere to live for more
than a few days."
"Anonymity?" Kenneth asked. "But that wouldn't help."
"Look here," the Duke said suddenly, "are you going any where in
particular? No? Why not come up to the house with me and stop a few
days?"
Mornington shook his head regretfully. "I have promised to stop with the
Archdeacon of Fardles over the week-end," he said.
"Well, after then?" the Duke urged. "Do, for God's sake come and talk
Chapman and Blunden with me. Look here, come up now, and I'll run you
over to Fardles in the car, and on Monday morning I'll come and fetch
you."
Kenneth a**ented to this, though he refused to leave his shelter. But
within some half an hour the Duke had brought his car to the front of
the shed and they were on the way to Fardles. As they drew near the
village, approaching it from the cottage side of Cully, they pa**ed
another car in a side turning, in which Mornington seemed to see, as he
was carried past, the faces of Gregory Persimmons and Adrian Rackstraw.
But he was in a long controversy with the Duke on the merits of the
Laureate's new prosody, and though he wondered a little, the incident
made hardly any impression on his mind.
The Archdeacon, it appeared, knew the Duke; the Duke was rather
detachedly acquainted with the Archdeacon. The detachment was perhaps
due to the fact, which had emerged from the few minutes' conversation
the three had together, that the Duke of the North Ridings was a Roman
Catholic (hence the Sword and Cape), so far as his obsession with poetry
and his own misfortunes left him leisure to be anything. But he promised
to come to lunch on Monday, and disappeared.
"I forgot Batesby," the Archdeacon said suddenly to Mornington, as the
car drove off. "Dear me! I'm afraid the Duke and he won't like one
another. Batesby's dreadfully keen on Reunion; he has a scheme of his
own for it--an admirable scheme, I'm certain, if only he could get
other people to see it in the same way."
"I should have thought the same thing was officially true of the Duke,"
Mornington said as they entered the house.
"But only because he's part of an institution," the Archdeacon said,
"and one can more easily believe that institutions are supernatural than
that individuals are. And an institution can believe in itself and can
wait, whereas an individual can't. Batesby can't afford to wait; he
might die."
At lunch Mornington had Mr. Batesby's scheme of Reunion explained at
length by its originator. It was highly complicated and, so far as
Kenneth could understand, involved everyone believing that God was
opposed to Communism and in favour of election as the only sound method
of government. The Archdeacon remarked that discovering the constitution
of the Catholic Church was a much pleasanter game than tennis, to which
he had been invited that afternoon.
"Though they know I don't play," he added plaintively. "So I was glad
you were coming, and I had an excuse."
"How do you get exercise?" Kenneth asked idly.
"Well, actually, I go in for fencing," the Archdeacon said, smiling. "I
used to love it as a boy romantically, and since I have outgrown romance
I keep it up prosaically."
The constitution of the Catholic Church occupied the lunch so fully that
not until Mr. Batesby had gone away to supervise the Lads' Christian
Cricket Club in his own parish, some ten miles off, did Kenneth see an
opportunity of talking to his host about _Christianity and the League of
Nations_. And even then, when they were settled in the garden, he found
that by the accident of conversation the priest was already chatting
about the deleted paragraph of _Sacred Vessels in Folklore_.
"Who?" he asked suddenly, arrested by a name.
"Persimmons," the Archdeacon answered. "I wonder if he had anything to
do with your firm. I seem to remember seeing him the day I called on
you."
"But if it's the man who's taken a house near here called Mullins or
Juggins or something, of _course_ he's something to do with our firm,"
Mornington cried. "He's Stephen's father; he used to _be_ the firm. Does
he live at Buggins?"
"He lives at Cully," the Archdeacon said, "which may be what you mean."
"But how do you know he wanted the paragraph out?" Kenneth demanded.
"Because Sir Giles told me so--confirmed by the fact that he tried to
cheat me out of the Graal, and the other fact that he eventually had me
knocked on the head and took it," answered the Archdeacon.
Kenneth looked at him, looked at the garden, looked across at the
church. "I am not mad," he murmured, "'My pulse doth temperately keep
time.'...Yes, it does. 'These are the thingummybobs, you are my what
d'ye call it.' But that a retired publisher should knock an Archdeacon
on the head..."
The Archdeacon flowed into the whole story, and ended with his exit from
Cully. Mornington, listening, felt the story to be fantastic and
ridiculous, and would have given himself up to incredulity, had it not
been for the notion of the Graal itself. This, which to some would have
been the extreme fantasy, was to him the easiest thing to believe. For
he approached the idea of the sacred vessel, not as did Sir Giles,
through antiquity and savage folklore, nor as did the Archdeacon,
through a sense of religious depths in which the mere temporary use of a
particular vessel seemed a small thing, but through exalted poetry and
the high romantic tradition in literature. This living light had shone
for so long in his mind upon the idea of the Graal that it was by now a
familiar thing--Tennyson and Hawker and Malory and older writers still
had made it familiar, and its familiarity created for it a kind of
potentiality. To deny it would be to deny his own past. But this
emotional testimony to the possibility of its existence had an
intellectual support. Kenneth knew--his publicity work had made clear
to him--the very high reputation Sir Giles had among the learned; a
hundred humble reviews had shown him that. And if the thing were
possible, and if the thing were likely...But still, Gregory
Persimmons...He looked back at the Archdeacon.
"You're sure you saw it?" he asked. "Have you gone to the police?"
"No," the Archdeacon said. "If you don't think I saw it, would the
police be likely to?"
"I do, I do," Kenneth said hastily. "But why should he want it?"
"I haven't any idea," the priest answered. "That's what baffles me too.
Why should anyone want anything as much as that? And certainly why
should anyone want the Graal? if it is the Graal? He talked to me about
being a collector, which makes me pretty sure he isn't."
Kenneth got up and walked up and down. There was a silence for a few
minutes, then the Archdeacon said: "However, we needn't worry over it.
What about me and the League of Nations?"
"Yes," Kenneth said absently, sitting down again. "Oh, well, Stephen
simply leapt at it. I read it, and I told him about it, and I suggested
sending it to one of our tame experts? only I couldn't decide between
the political expert and the theological. At least, I was going to
suggest it, but I didn't have time. 'By an Archdeacon? By an orthodox
Archdeacon? Oh, take it, take it by all means, by all manner of means.'
He positively tangoed at it."
"This is very gratifying," the Archdeacon answered, "and the haste is
unexpected."
"Stephen", Kenneth went on, "has a weakness for clerical books; I've
noticed it before. Fiction is our stand-by, of course; but he takes all
the man*scripts by clergymen that he decently can. I think he's a little
shy of some parts of our list, and likes to counterbalance them. We used
to do a lot of occult stuff; a particular kind of occult. The standard
work on the Black Ma** and that sort of thing. That was before Stephen
himself really got going, but he feels vaguely responsible, I've no
doubt."
"Who ran it then?" the Archdeacon asked idly. "Gregory," Mornington
answered. He stopped suddenly, and the two looked at one another.
"Oh, it's all nonsense," Mornington broke out. "The Black Ma**, indeed!"
"The Black Ma** is all nonsense, of course," the Archdeacon said; "but
nonsense, after all, does exist. And minds can get drunk with nonsense."
"Do you really mean", Mornington asked, "that a London publisher sold
his soul to the devil and signed it away in his own blood and that sort
of thing? Because I'm damned if I can see him doing it. Lots of people
are interested in magic, without doing secret incantations under the new
moon with the aid of dead men's grease."
"You keep harping on the London publisher," the other said. "If a London
publisher has a soul--which you're bound to admit--he can sell it if
he likes: not to the devil, but to himself. Why not?" He considered. "I
think perhaps, after all, I ought to try and recover that chalice. There
are decencies. There is a way of behaving in these things. And the
Graal, if it is the Graal," he went on, unusually moved, "was not meant
for the greedy orgies of a delirious tomtit."
"Tomtit!" Mornington cried. "If it could be true, he wouldn't be a
tomtit. He'd be a vulture."
"Well, never mind," the priest said. "The question is, can I do anything
at once? I've half a mind to go and take it."
"Look here," said Mornington, "let me go and see him first. Stephen
thought it would look well if I called, being down here. And let me talk
to Lionel Rackstraw." He spoke almost crossly. "Once a silly idea like
this gets into one's mind, one can't see anything else. I think you're
wrong."
"I don't see, then, what good you're going to do," the Archdeacon said.
"If I'm mad--"
"Wrong, I said," Kenneth put in.
"Wrong because being hit on the head has affected my mind and my eyes--
which is almost the same thing as being mad. If I'm demented, anyhow--
you won't be any more clear about it after a chat with Mr. Persimmons on
whatever he does chat about. Nor with Mr. Rackstraw, whoever he may be."
Kenneth explained briefly. "So, you see, he's really been a very decent
fellow over the cottage," he concluded.
"My dear man," the Archdeacon said, "if you had tea with him and he gave
you the last crumpet, it wouldn't prove anything unless he badly wanted
the crumpet, and not much even then. He might want something else more."
This, however, was a point of view to which Kenneth, when that evening
he walked over to the cottage, found Lionel not very willing to agree.
Gregory, so far as the Rackstraws were concerned, had been nothing but
an advantage. He had lent them the cottage; he had sent a maid down from
Cully to save Barbara trouble; he had occupied Adrian for hours together
with the motor and other amusements, until the child was very willing
for his parents to go off on more or less extensive walks while he
played with his new friend. And Lionel saw no reason to a**ociate
himself actively--even in sympathy--with the archidiaconal crusade;
more especially since Mornington himself was torn between scepticism and
sympathy.
"In any case," he said, "I don't know what you want me to do. Anyone
that will take Adrian off my hands for a little while can knock all the
Archdeacons in the country on the head so far as I am concerned."
"I don't want you to do anything", Kenneth answered, "except discuss
it."
"Well, we're going up to tea at Cully to-morrow," Lionel said. "I can
talk about it there, if you like."
Kenneth arrived at Cully on the Sunday afternoon, after having heard the
Archdeacon preach a sermon in the morning on "_Thou shall not covet thy
neighbour's house_," in which, having identified "thy neighbour" with God
and touched lightly on the text "_Mine are the cattle upon a thousand
hills_," he went off into a fantastic exhortation upon the thesis that
the only thing left to covet was "thy neighbour" Himself. "Not His
creation, not His manifestations, not even His qualities, but Him," the
Archdeacon ended. "This should be our covetousness and our desire; for
this only no greed is too great, as this only can satisfy the greatest
greed. The whole universe is His house, the soul of thy mortal neighbour
is His wife, thou thyself art His servant and thy body His maid--a
myriad oxen, a myriad a**es, subsist in the high inorganic creation. Him
only thou shalt covet with all thy heart, with all thy mind, with all
thy soul, and with all thy strength. And now to God Almighty, the
Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be ascribed, as is most justly due,
all honour..." The congregation searched for sixpences.
Lionel, Barbara, and Adrian were with Persimmons and Sir Giles on the
terrace behind the house when Kenneth arrived, and had already spoken of
his probable visit. Gregory welcomed him pleasantly enough, as one of
the staff who had originally worked under him. But Kenneth's mind was
already in a slight daze, for, as he had been conducted by the maid
through the hall, he had seen on a bracket about the height of his head
from the ground, in a corner near the garden door, an antique cup which
struck him forcibly as being very like the one the Archdeacon had
described to him. It seemed impossible that, if the priest's absurd
suspicions were right, Persimmons should so flaunt the theft before the
world--unless, indeed, it were done merely to create the impression of
impossibility. "There is no possible idea", Kenneth thought as he came
on to the terrace, "to which the mind of man can't supply some damned
alternative or other. Yet one must act. How are you, Mr. Persimmons?
You'll excuse this call, I know."
The conversation rippled gently round the spring publishing season and
books in general, with backwaters of attention in which Adrian immersed
himself.
It approached, gently and unobserved by the two young men, the question
of corrections in proof, and it was then that Sir Giles, who had until
then preserved a sardonic and almost complete silence, said suddenly:
"What I want to know is, whether proofs are or are not private?"
"I suppose they are, technically," Lionel said lazily, watching Adrian.
"Subject to the discretion of the publisher.
"Subject to the discretion of the devil," Sir Giles said. "What do you
say, Persimmons?"
"I should say yes," Gregory answered. "At least till they are pa**ed for
press."
"I ask," Sir Giles said pointedly, "because my last proofs were shown to
an outsider before the book was published. And if one of these gentlemen
was responsible I want to know why."
"My dear Tumulty, it doesn't matter," Gregory in a quiet, soothing tone
put in. "I asked you not to mention it, you know."
"I know you did," Sir Giles answered, "and I said that I felt I ought
to. After all, a man has a right to know why a mad clergyman is allowed
to read paragraphs of his book which he afterwards cancels. I tell you,
Persimmons, we haven't seen the last of your...Archdeacon yet."
It was evident that Barbara's presence was causing Sir Giles acute
difficulty in the expression of his feelings. But this was unknown to
Kenneth, who, realizing suddenly what the other was talking about, said,
leaning forward in his chair, "I'm afraid that's my fault, Sir Giles. It
was I showed the Archdeacon your proofs. I'm extremely sorry if it's
inconvenienced you, but I don't think I agree that proofs are so
entirely private as you suggest. Something must be allowed to a
publisher's need for publicity, and perhaps something for the mere
accidents of a publishing house. There was no special stipulation about
privacy for your book."
"I made no stipulation," Sir Giles answered, staring hostilely at
Kenneth, "because I didn't for an instant suppose I should find it being
read in convocation before my final corrections were made."
"Really, really, Tumulty," Gregory said. "It's unfortunate, as it's
turned out, but I'm sure Mornington would be the first to deplore a
slight excess of zeal, a slight error of judgement, shall we say?"
"Error of judgement?" Sir Giles snarled. "It's more like a breach of
common honesty."
Kenneth came to his feet. "I admit no error in judgement," he said
haughtily. "I was entirely within my rights. What is the misfortune you
complain of, Mr. Persimmons?" He moved so as to turn his back on Sir
Giles.
"I don't complain," Gregory answered hastily. "It's just one of those
things that happen. But the Archdeacon, owing to your zeal, my dear
Mornington, has been trying to saddle me with the responsibility for the
loss of this chalice Sir Giles was writing about. I do wish he'd never
seen the proofs. I think you must admit they ought to be treated as
private."
"It's exactly like reading out a private letter from the steps of St.
Paul's," Sir Giles added. "A man who does it ought to be flung into the
gutter to starve."
"Now, now, Tumulty," Gregory put in, as the enraged Kenneth wheeled
round, and Barbara and Lionel hastily stood up, "it's not as bad as
that. I think perhaps strict commercial morality would mean strict
privacy, but perhaps we take a rather austere view. The younger
generation is looser, you know--less tied--less dogmatic, shall we
say?"
"Less honest, you mean," Sir Giles said. "However, it's your affair more
than mine, after all."
"Let's say no more about it," Gregory said handsomely.
"But I will say more about it," Kenneth cried out. "Do you expect me to
be called a thief and a liar and I don't know what, because I did a
perfectly right thing, and then be forgiven for it? I beg your pardon,
Barbara, but I can't stand it, and I won't."
"You can't help it," Sir Giles said, grinning. "What will you do? We've
both forgiven you, my fine fellow, and there it stops."
Kenneth stamped his foot in anger. "I'll have an apology," he said. "Sir
Giles, what is the importance of this beastly book of yours?"
Barbara moved forward and slipped her arm in his. "Kenneth dear," she
murmured; and then to Gregory, "Mr. Persimmons, I don't quite know what
all this is about, but couldn't we do without forgiving one another?"
She smiled at Sir Giles. "Sir Giles has had to forgive so many people, I
expect, in different parts of the world, that he might spare us this
time."
Lionel came to her help. "It's my fault more than Mornington's," he
said. "I was supposed to be looking after the proofs, and I let an
uncorrected set out of my keeping. It's me you must slang, Sir Giles."
"In the firm is one thing," Sir Giles said obstinately, "one risks that.
But an outsider, and a clergyman, and a mad clergyman--no."
"Mad clergyman be--" Kenneth began, and was silenced by Barbara's
appealing, "But what is it all about? Can you tell me, Mr. Persimmons?"
"I can even show you," Gregory said pleasantly. "As a matter of fact,
Adrian's seen it already. We had a game with it this morning. It's a
question of identifying an old chalice." He led the way into the hall,
and paused before the bracket. "There you are," he said, "that's mine. I
got it from a Greek, who got it from one of his countrymen who fled
before the Turkish recovery in Asia Minor. It comes, through Smyrna,
from Ephesus. Old enough and interesting, but as for being the Graal--
Unfortunately, after the Archdeacon had read this paragraph about which
we've all been behaving so badly, three things happened. I did ask him
if he had a chalice to spare for a friend of mine who has a very poor
parish; thieves made an attempt on the church over there; and the
Archdeacon was knocked on the head by a tramp. He seems to think that
this proves conclusively that I was the tramp and that this is his
missing chalice. At least, he says it's missing."
"How do you mean, sir--says it's missing?" Lionel asked.
"Well, honestly--I dare say it's mere pique--but we none of us really
_know_ the Archdeacon, do we?" Gregory asked. "And some of the clergy
aren't above turning an honest penny by supplying American millionaires
with curios. But it looks bad if it does happen to come out--so if the
thing _can_ disappear by means of a tramp or an unknown neighbour..."
There was a moment's pause, then Kenneth said, "Really, sir, if you _knew_
the Archdeacon..."
"Quite right," Gregory answered. "Oh, my dear fellow, I'm being unjust
to him, no doubt. But a man doesn't expect his parish priest practically
to accuse him of highway robbery. I shouldn't be surprised if I heard
from the police next. Probably the best thing would be to offer him this
one to replace the one he says he's--I mean the one he's lost. But I
don't think I'm quite Christian enough for that."
"And how did you play with it this morning?" Barbara asked, smiling at
Adrian.
"Ah, that is a secret game, isn't it, Adrian?" Gregory answered merrily.
"_Our_ secret game. Isn't it, Adrian?"
"It's hidden," Adrian said seriously. "It's hidden pictures. But you
mustn't know what, Mummie, must she?" He appealed to Gregory.
"Certainly not," Gregory said.
"Certainly not," Adrian repeated. "They're my hidden pictures."
"So they shall be, darling," Barbara said. "Please forgive me. Well, Mr.
Persimmons, I suppose we ought to be going. Thank you for a charming
afternoon. You're making this a very pleasant holiday."
Sir Giles had dropped away when they had entered the hall, and the
farewells were thus robbed of their awkwardness; although Gregory
detained Kenneth in order to say, "I think I can put it right with
Tumulty, although he was very angry at first. Talked of appealing to my
son and getting you dismissed, you know."
"Getting me what?" Kenneth cried.
"Well, you know what my son is," Gregory said confidentially. "Efficient
and all that--but you've known him in business, Mornington, and you
know what he is. Rather easily influenced, I'm afraid. And Sir Giles is
a good name for his list."
"A very good name," Kenneth admitted, feeling less heated and more
chilly than he had done. It was true--Stephen Persimmons was weak, and
would be terrified of losing Sir Giles. And he had before now been
guilty of dismissing people in a fit of hysterical anger.
"But I've no doubt it's all right," Gregory went on, watching the other
closely, "no doubt at all. Let me know if anything goes wrong. I've a
great regard for you, Mornington, and a word, perhaps...And keep the
Archdeacon quiet, if you can. It would be worth your while."
He waved his hand and turned back into the house, and Kenneth,
considerably more disturbed than before, walked slowly back to the
Rectory.