We went.  At the doorstep of Bartholomew Storrs’s office he paused.

“This sexton-guy,” he said anxiously, “he don’t play the ponies, ever, I wouldn’t suppose?”

“No more often than he commits murder or goes to sleep in church,” I smiled.

“Yeh?” he answered, disheartened.  “I gotta get to him some other way.  On the poetry—­and that’s out of my line.”

“I don’t quite see what your difficulty is.”

“By what you tell me, it’s easier to break into a swell Fifth Avenue Club than into this place.”

“Except for those having the vested right, as your wife has.”

“And this sexton-guy handles the concession for—­he’s got the say-so,” he corrected himself hastily—­“on who goes in and who stays out.  Is that right?”

“Substantially.”

“And he’d rather keep ’em out than let ’em in?”

“Bartholomew,” I explained, “considers that the honor of God’s Acre is in his keeping.  He has a fierce sort of jealousy about it, as if he had a proprietary interest in the place.”

“I get you!” Mr. Hines’s corded throat worked painfully.  “You don’t suppose the old goat would slip Min a blackball?” he gulped.

“How can he?  As an ’Inalienable’—­”

“Yeh; I know.  But wasn’t there something about a clean record?  I’ll tell you, Dominie”—­Mr. Hines’s husky but assured voice trailed away into a miserable, thick whisper—­“as to what he said—­about her feet taking hold on hell—­I guess there was a time—­I guess about one more slip—­I guess I didn’t run across her any too quick.  But there never was a straighter, truer girl than Min was with me.  I gotta get her planted right, Dominie.  I gotta do it,” he concluded with pathetic earnestness.

“I see no difficulty,” I assured him.  “The charter specifies ’died in honorable estate.’  Matrimony is an honorable estate.  How she lived before that is between her and a gentler Judge than Bartholomew Storrs.”

“Give her a straight course and a fair judge and I’ll back Min to the limit,” said Mr. Hines so simply and loyally that no suggestion of irreverence could attach to him.

Nevertheless, doubt was mingled with determination in his florid face as he rang the bell.  Bartholomew Storrs opened to us, himself.  When he saw me, he hastily pocketed a Rhyming Dictionary.  I introduced my companion, stating, by way of a favorable opening, that he was interested in memorial poetry.

“Very pleased,” said Bartholomew Storrs in his deep, lugubrious tones.  “Bereaved husband?”

Mr. Hines nodded.

“Here’s a tasty thing I just completed,” continued the poet, and, extending a benignant hand toward the visitor he intoned nasally: 

  “Together we have lived our life
  Till thou hast gone on high. 
  But I will come to thee, dear Wife,
  In the sweet bye-and-bye.”

“That style five dollars,” he said.