Stafford took no notice of him, He rose and held out his hand. "I'm
going back to London to-morrow," he said, "to wait till she comes."

"God help you!" said Morewood, with a sudden impulse.

"I have no more to do with God," said Stafford.

"Then the devil help you, if you rely on him!"

"Don't be angry," he said, with a swift return of his old sweet smile.
"In old days I should have liked your indignation. I still like you for
it. But I have made my choice."

"'Evil, be thou my good.' Is that it?"

"Yes, if you like. Why talk about it any more? It is done."

He turned and walked away, leaving Morewood alone to finish his
forgotten lunch.

He could not get the thought of the man out of his mind all day. It was
with him as he worked, and with him when he sat after dinner in the
parlor of his little inn, with his pipe and whisky and water. He was so
full of Stafford that he could not resist the impulse to tell somebody
else, and at last he took a sheet of paper.

"I don't know if he's in town," he said, "but I'll chance it;" and he
began:

"DEAR AYRE:

"By chance down here I met the parson. He is mad. He painted for me
the passion of belief--which he said I hadn't and implied I
couldn't feel. He threatened to paint the passion of love, with
the same assertion and the same implication. He is convinced that
if he breaks his vow (you remember it, of course) he'll be worse
than Satan. Yet his face is set to break it. You probably can't
help it, and wouldn't if you could, for you haven't heard him. He's
going to London. Stop him if you can before he gets to Claudia
Territon. I tell you his state of mind is hideous.

"Yours,

"A. MOREWOOD."

This somewhat incoherent letter reached Sir Roderick Ayre as he passed
through London, and tarried a day or two in early October. He opened it,
read it, and put it down on the breakfast-table. Then he read it again,
and ejaculated.

"Talk about madness! Why, because Stafford's mad--if he is mad--must our
friend the painter go mad too? Not that I see he is mad. He's only been
stirring up old Morewood's dormant piety."

He lit his cigar, and sat pondering the letter.

"Shall I try to stop him? If Claudia and Eugene have fixed up things it
would be charitable to prevent him making a fool of himself. Why the
deuce haven't I heard anything from that young rascal? Hullo! who's
that?"

He heard a voice outside, a