“Why does she not send for her parish-priest?” he asked.

“She she does not know who he is, sir; she saw you once in the Cathedral, sir, and asked you for your name.  Do you remember, sir?—­an old lady?”

Percy did dimly remember something of the kind a month or two before; but he could not be certain, and said so.

“Well, sir, you will come, will you not?”

“I must communicate with Father Dolan,” said the priest.  “If he gives me permission—–­”

“If you please, sir, Father—­Father Dolan must not know her name.  You will not tell him?”

“I do not know it myself yet,” said the priest, smiling.

The stranger sat back abruptly at that, and his face worked.

“Well, sir, let me tell you this first.  This old lady’s son is my employer, and a very prominent Communist.  She lives with him and his wife.  The other two will be away to-night.  That is why I am asking you all this.  And now, you till come, sir?”

Percy looked at him steadily for a moment or two.  Certainly, if this was a conspiracy, the conspirators were feeble folk.  Then he answered: 

“I will come, sir; I promise.  Now the name.”

The stranger again licked his lips nervously, and glanced timidly from side to side.  Then he seemed to gather his resolution; he leaned forward and whispered sharply.

“The old lady’s name is Brand, sir—­the mother of Mr. Oliver Brand.”

For a moment Percy was bewildered.  It was too extraordinary to be true.  He knew Mr. Oliver Brand’s name only too well; it was he who, by God’s permission, was doing more in England at this moment against the Catholic cause than any other man alive; and it was he whom the Trafalgar Square incident had raised into such eminent popularity.  And now, here was his mother—–­

He turned fiercely upon the man.

“I do not know what you are, sir—­whether you believe in God or not; but will you swear to me on your religion and your honour that all this is true?”

The timid eyes met his, and wavered; but it was the wavering of weakness, not of treachery.

“I—­I swear it, sir; by God Almighty.”

“Are you a Catholic?”

The man shook his head.

“But I believe in God,” he said.  “At least, I think so.”

Percy leaned back, trying to realise exactly what it all meant.  There was no triumph in his mind—­that kind of emotion was not his weakness; there was fear of a kind, excitement, bewilderment, and under all a satisfaction that God’s grace was so sovereign.  If it could reach this woman, who could be too far removed for it to take effect?  Presently he noticed the other looking at him anxiously.

“You are afraid, sir?  You are not going back from your promise?”

That dispersed the cloud a little, and Percy smiled.

“Oh! no,” he said.  “I will be there at twenty-two o’clock. ...  Is death imminent?”