Betty, who sat next to her, was the only one who saw her confusion, and her sudden movement towards the plate after it passed.  She glanced at her curiously, wondering at her agitation, but the next moment forgot it in listening to the wonderful voice that took up the solo.

But the solo, as far as Mary was concerned, might have been a siren whistle or a steam calliope.  She was watching the man of the bald head and the double chins, who had walked off with her shilling.  Down the central aisle went the pompous gentleman at last in company with two others, and the three plates were received by the rector and blessed and deposited on the altar, all in the most deliberate fashion, while Mary twisted her fingers and thought of desperate but impossible plans to rescue her shilling.

If she had been alone she would have hurried to the front at the close of the service, and watched to see who became the custodian of the alms.  Then she could have pounced upon him and begged to be allowed to rectify her mistake.  But Phil and the girls would think she had lost her mind if they should see her do such a thing, unless she explained to them.  Somehow she shrank from letting anybody know how highly she valued that shilling.  All at once she had grown self-conscious.  She had not known herself, just how much she cared for it until it was gone beyond recall.  Aside from the sentiment for which she cherished it she had a superstitious feeling that her fate was bound up with it in such a way that the gods would cease to be propitious if she lost the talisman that influenced them.

No feasible plan occurred to her, however.  The choir passed out in slow recessional.  The congregation as slowly followed.  Mary loitered as long as possible, even going back for her handkerchief, which she had purposely dropped in the pew to give her an excuse to return.  But her anxious glances revealed nothing.  The vestry door was closed, and nobody was inside the chancel rail.

As they passed down the steps Phil turned to glance at a small bulletin board outside the door, on which the hours of the service were printed in gilt letters.  “Dudley Eames, Rector,” he read in a low tone.  “Strange I never can remember that man’s name, when Stuart is always quoting him.  They are both great golf players, and were eternally making engagements with each other over the phone, when I was here last summer.  I heard it often enough to remember it, I’m sure.”

He did not see the expression of relief which his remark brought to Mary’s face.  It held a suggestion which she resolved to act upon as soon as she could find opportunity.  She would telephone to the rector about it.

CHAPTER IX

THE BRIDE-CAKE SHILLING COMES TO LIGHT