lked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceived
by either of the Grendalls, Mr Melmotte was trying, but trying in
vain, to move his own seat nearer to Imperial Majesty. A bar had been
put up of such a nature that Melmotte, sitting in the seat prepared
for him, would absolutely be barred out from the centre of his own
hall. 'Who the d---- are you?' he asked, when the priest appeared
close before his eyes on the inner or more imperial side of the bar.
It was not the habit of Father Barham's life to appear in sleek
apparel. He was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that age
can produce. In Beccles where he was known it signified little, but in
the halls of the great one in Grosvenor Square, perhaps the stranger's
welcome was cut to the measure of his outer man. A comely priest in
glossy black might have been received with better grace.

Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off. He was a man of infinite
pluck; but outward humility--at any rate at the commencement of an
enterprise,--was the rule of his life. 'I am the Rev. Mr Barham,' said
the visitor. 'I am the priest of Beccles in Suffolk. I believe I am
speaking to Mr Melmotte.'

'That's my name, sir. And what may you want? I don't know whether you
are aware that you have found your way into my private dining-room
without any introduction. Where the mischief are the fellows, Alfred,
who ought to have seen about this? I wish you'd look to it, Miles. Can
anybody who pleases walk into my hall?'

'I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse,' said
the priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain his
mission. Had not Lord Alfred been there he could have done it better,
in spite of the very repulsive manner of the great man himself.

'Is it business?' asked Lord Alfred.

'Certainly it is business,' said Father Barham with a smile.

'Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane,--in the
City,' said his lordship.

'My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross,
who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr Melmotte himself that his
heart is inclined to the true Faith.'

'Some lunatic,' said Melmotte. 'See that there ain't any knives about,
Alfred.'

'No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who are
enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others.'

'Just get a policeman, Alfred. Or send somebody; you'd better not go
away.'

'You will hardly ne