First Presbyterian
Church upon Oliver's Hill is a brisk walk of fifteen minutes. As Coombe
lies in a valley, Oliver's Hill is not a hill, really, but a gentle
eminence. It is a charming, tree-lined street bordered by the homes and
gardens of the well-to-do. It is, in fact, _the_ street of Coombe, and
to live upon Oliver's Hill is a social passport seldom mentioned but
never ignored.

As if social prominence were not enough, it had another claim upon the
affections and memories of many, for up this hill every Sunday in a long
and goodly stream poured the first Presbyterians who were not only the
elect but also the elite of Coombe. To see Knox Church "come out" was
one of the sights of the town and, decorously hidden behind a muslin
curtain, a stranger might feast his eyes upon greatness unrebuked. It
was said at one time that every silk hat in Coombe attended Knox Church,
but this was vainglory, for it was afterwards proved that several
repaired to St. Michael's and at least one to the Baptist tabernacle.
With this explanation you will at once understand why the sidewalk was a
few feet broader upon the church side of Oliver's Hill, and if this
circumstance savours to you of ecclesiastical privilege we can only
conclude that you are not Presbyterian, and request you not to be so
narrow-minded.

As the doctor and his half-reluctant friend turned at the foot of the
hill they were immediately absorbed by the stream pressing upwards, for
the last bell had already begun to ring.

"We're all right," whispered Callandar encouragingly. "It rings for five
minutes."

The professor opened his lips to say something, but shut them with a
snap. There was probably method in the doctor's madness but it was
method which would never be disclosed through much questioning. With an
expression of intense solemnity he fixed his eyes, gimlet-like, upon the
middle button of the Sunday blouse of the lady in front of him and
followed up the hill. To the absurdly low-toned remarks of his companion
he vouchsafed no reply whatever.

They entered the church to the subdued rustle of Sunday silks and the
whisper of Sunday voices. At the door some one shook hands with
Callandar and remarked in a ghostly whisper that it was a fine day. A
grave young man, in black, led them to a pew half way down the aisle.
Most of the pews were already full, the latest comers showing slight
signs of hurry; and as they seated themselves the bell stopped and the
organ