Page:Arthur Stranger--The Stranger.djvu/16

12 "Where the need is great," murmured the other, "even they come back."

A gesture, more of frustration than of impatience, came from the man at the desk.

"Let's get down to earth. What I want to know is, just who you are and where you're from. What's your name?"

There was a moment's silence.

"My name, sir, is Wolfe," answered the other, oddly humble, "James Wolfe."

John Hardy leaned forward, with his thick elbows on the polished rosewood desk-top.

"Well, Mister Wolfe, I'm glad to have met you. And I'll admit that you've stirred me up a bit this morning, and that I've talked to you as I don't talk to most men. There's been a good deal said about this country of ours, and about coming to her help when she's calling for it. But since you seem to know a good deal about what I've done and what I haven't done, I'm a little curious to know, since you've ventured to bring the matter up, what you've ever done for this Canada of ours?"

"I died for it on the Plains of Abraham one hundred and sixty years ago," answered the voice of the stranger, out of a stillness that seemed disturbingly like the stillness of the house of God.

John Hardy started up with a cry of understanding. He had heard no movement, no sound of a door being opened and closed. But he found that he was alone. And he was oppressed by a dull feeling of shame, not unlike a consciousness of trivially uncouth movements in a place of worship. He saw it all now, where before it had seemed so meaningless.

He sat before his desk, deep in thought. He sat there without moving even after a young man in spectacles, with a sheaf of papers in his hand, stepped with a secretarial sort of soft briskness into the room.

"You re a trifle late this morning, Mr. Hardy," ventured the young man in spectacles, with his quick yet controlled smile. For