r
all--some kind of retaliation, an attempt to trap him. Yet he had
promised to say nothing, and to go.

He finished his daily letter after dinner as usual, with a curious sense
of fatality; addressed and stamped it. Then he went downstairs, in his
walking-dress, to Father Blackmore's room.

"Will you hear my confession, father?" he said abruptly.

II

Victoria Station, still named after the great nineteenth-century Queen,
was neither more nor less busy than usual as he came into it
half-an-hour later. The vast platform, sunk now nearly two hundred feet
below the ground level, showed the double crowd of passengers entering
and leaving town. Those on the extreme left, towards whom Percy began to
descend in the open glazed lift, were by far the most numerous, and the
stream at the lift-entrance made it necessary for him to move slowly.

He arrived at last, walking in the soft light on the noiseless ribbed
rubber, and stood by the door of the long car that ran straight through
to the Junction. It was the last of a series of a dozen or more, each of
which slid off minute by minute. Then, still watching the endless
movement of the lifts ascending and descending between the entrances of
the upper end of the station, he stepped in and sat down.

He felt quiet now that he had actually started. He had made his
confession, just in order to make certain of his own soul, though
scarcely expecting any definite danger, and sat now, his grey suit and
straw hat in no way distinguishing him as a priest (for a general leave
was given by the authorities to dress so for any adequate reason). Since
the case was not imminent, he had not brought stocks or pyx--Father
Dolan had wired to him that he might fetch them if he wished from St.
Joseph's, near the Junction. He had only the violet thread in his
pocket, such as was customary for sick calls.

He was sliding along peaceably enough, fixing his eyes on the empty seat
opposite, and trying to preserve complete collectedness when the car
abruptly stopped. He looked out, astonished, and saw by the white
enamelled walks twenty feet from the window that they were already in
the tunnel. The stoppage might arise from many causes, and he was not
greatly excited, nor did it seem that others in the carriage took it
very seriously; he could hear, after a moment's silence, the talking
recommence beyond the partition.

Then there came, echoed by the walls, the sound of shouting from far
away