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 shouldn't answer this final invitation to be saved. One might die in the night.

He felt a hot little hand grip his fingers, and looked around to find Gritty in a panic. Her blue eyes were fairly growing, her lips were apart, her face had lost its pertness and was pale and appealing. A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over him. Gritty too! That swine up there had been making Gritty think she was a sinner—Gritty, the best little sport in Hale's Turning, a girl who would tackle anybody with her fists, even John Ashmill, in the interests of truth; Gritty who got into scrapes but who always owned up, Gritty who had run out into the hall and bitten the Principal's hand when he tried to strap Wilfrid Fraser for shooting spit-balls! That duffer might point out his sins, the sins of Paul Minas, but he needn't go insulting Gritty Kestrell! If God was going to send Gritty to eternal punishment, well, he could send Paul Minas along with her—they would go to hell together, just as they had planned to go on the stage together. Paul thought of the Sweet Caporal they had smoked, and hesitated. There was that of course. Gritty wasn't faultless—far from it. She wasn't above stealing things from the pantry, or pelting people's windows on Hallow-e'en. But it was all in fun. And if God wanted faultless people he could whistle for them.

"Hey, Gritty," he whispered. "Let's get out of this." She was still in a tremble and quite prepared to go through with whatever the man should prescribe. This was unlike Gritty, who usually said something saucy when you commanded her. He got up, dragging at her arm, and she followed. The evangelist saw them turn towards the exit, instead of towards the mercy seat, and called out to them. Paul's knees threatened to give way, and Gritty gasped. A surge of nervous indignation swept over Paul and he went grimly on.