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ORTRE felt certain that his vicar stood without. His knocking was full of militant Christianity. The tumultuous energy of the man without communicated its own stir and disturbance to Basil's brain by the most subtle of all forms of telepathy — that "telepathy" which, in a few more years, will have its definite recipes and formulae.

Father Ripon refused to live by any standard of measured time. He refused — so he said — to believe that a wretched little clock really knew what the great golden sun was doing. He had found it impossible to call on Gortre before this late hour, and he came regardless of it now. He wished to see Basil, and he came now with a supreme and simple carelessness of conventional time.

As usual, the worthy man was hungry, and the débris of supper on the table reminded him of that. He sat down at once and began to eat rapidly, telling his story between mouthfuls.

"I bring you news of a famous opportunity," he said. "If you go to work in the right way you may win a soul. It's a poor demi-mondaine creature, a dancer at the theatres. She came to me in her brougham, her furs, and finery, and had a chat in my study. I gave her tea and a cigarette — you know I always keep some cigarettes for the choir-men or teachers when they call. All these women smoke. It's a great thing to treat these