As the doctor and his half-reluctant friend turned at the foot of the hill they were immediately absorbed by the stream pressing upwards, for the last bell had already begun to ring.

“We’re all right,” whispered Callandar encouragingly.  “It rings for five minutes.”

The professor opened his lips to say something, but shut them with a snap.  There was probably method in the doctor’s madness but it was method which would never be disclosed through much questioning.  With an expression of intense solemnity he fixed his eyes, gimlet-like, upon the middle button of the Sunday blouse of the lady in front of him and followed up the hill.  To the absurdly low-toned remarks of his companion he vouchsafed no reply whatever.

They entered the church to the subdued rustle of Sunday silks and the whisper of Sunday voices.  At the door some one shook hands with Callandar and remarked in a ghostly whisper that it was a fine day.  A grave young man, in black, led them to a pew half way down the aisle.  Most of the pews were already full, the latest comers showing slight signs of hurry; and as they seated themselves the bell stopped and the organ began.

There was a moment’s expectant interval and then two doors, one at either side of the pulpit, opened simultaneously and the minister entered from one side, the choir from the other.  Before the minister walked a very solemn man with abnormally long upper lip.  This was Elder John MacTavish, a man of large substance, of great piety and poor digestion.  It was upon this latter account that the doctor always observed him with peculiar interest, for had not Mrs. Sykes declared that if he should only be called in once to prescribe for John MacTavish’s stomach his future in Coombe was secure?

“Doctor Parker is doing him just no good at all,” she reported.  “So keep an eye on him.  If he looks especially dour it’s a good sign.”

“Would you say that he looks especially ’dour’?” whispered Callandar to Willits.

“I should.  Why?”

“Oh, nothing—­only it’s a good sign!  Hush!”

When the minister has entered the pulpit at Knox Church there is a moment during which you may bow your head, or, if you consider this popish, you may cover your face with your gloved hand.  It is a moment of severe quiet.  One does not dare even to cough.  Hence the doctor’s warning “hush!”

But this morning the quiet was rudely broken.  Somewhere, just outside the open windows, sounded a laugh; a young, clear, unrestrained laugh, then the call of a sharp whistle, and next moment, through the doors not yet closed, hurtled something yellow and long-legged!  With a joyous bark it rushed along the nearest aisle, across the front of the pulpit, down the other aisle and out at the door again.

The congregation was amazed and grieved.  Its serenity was shaken, even the minister seemed disturbed.  Some younger members of the choir giggled.  It was most unseemly.