me see! And Forbes
Thompson, the great rifle clubman, you know; _and_ the Canadian
preachers--splendid fellows, by Jove! Simply splendid they are, I can
tell you. I look for great things from those two. Stairs is English, of
course, but he's been nearly all his life in British Columbia and the
Northwest, and he's got all the eternal youth, the fire and grit and
enthusiasm of the Canadian, with--somehow, something else as well--good.
His chum, Reynolds, is an out-and-out Canadian, born in Toronto of
Canadian parents. Gad, there's solid timber in that chap, I can tell
you. But, look here! Come right in, and take a hand. I'm awfully glad
you came. I heard all about _The Mass_ and that; but, bless me, I can
see in your eye that that's all past and done with for ever. By the way,
I heard last night that your Mr. Clement Blaine had got a job after his
own heart, in the pay of the Germans at Chatham--interpreter in the
passport office, or some such a thing. What a man! Well, come along in,
my dear chap, and give us the benefit of your wisdom."

We were leaving the room now.

"I knew you'd like Constance," he said. "She's the real thing, isn't
she?"

I despised myself for the hint of chill his words brought me. What right
had I to suspect or resent? And in any case John Crondall spoke in his
customary frank way, with never a hint of afterthought.

"Yes," I said; "she's splendid."

"And such a head-piece, my boy. By Jove, she has a better head for
business than---- Here we are, then."

Constance Grey was naturally the first to greet me in the big room where
John Crondall did his work and met his friends. There was welcome in her
beautiful eyes, but, obviously, Constance was very much preoccupied.
Then I was presented to Sir Morell Strachey, Sir Herbert Tate, and
Forbes Thompson, and then to the Canadian parson, the Rev. George
Stairs. I had paid no attention to the name when Crondall had mentioned
it in the other room. Now, as he named the parson again, I looked into
the man's face, and----

"Mordan? Why, not Dick Mordan, of Tarn Regis?" said the parson.

"By gad! George Stairs! I was thinking of you on the side of Barebarrow
the night before last."

"And I was thinking of you, Dicky Mordan, yesterday afternoon, when I
met the present rector of Tarn Regis at a friend's house."

It was a long strong handshake that we exchanged. Sixteen years on the
young side of thirty is a considerable stretch of time, and all that