There passed before me in procession the face of Laurence with all its boyish bloom stripped from it and the glory of its youth vanished; and the bowed and humbled head of James Eustis, one of the large and noble souls of this world; and the innocent beauty of Mary Virginia, wistfully appealing; followed them the beautiful ruthless face of Hunter, dazzlingly blonde, gold-haired as Baldur; and the piglike eyes and heavy jowl of Inglesby, brutally dominant; and then the dear whimsical visage of the Butterfly Man himself.  They passed; and I fell to praying, with a sort of still desperation, for all of us.

And all the while the steady and rosy light of the sanctuary lamp fell upon me, and the little lights flickered before the silent saints.  I took myself in hand, forced myself into self-control.  I did not minimize one risk nor slur one danger.  I knew exactly what was at stake.  And having done this, I decided upon my course: 

“If he has thought of this himself, then I will help.  But if he has not, I will not suggest it, no, no matter what happens.”

I told myself I would say ten more Hailmarys, and I said them, with an Ourfather at the end.  And without further praying I got to my feet.  The church seemed to be full of breathless whisperings, as if it watched and listened while I moved over to Stanislaus and tipped him backward.  He is a rather heavy and sizable boy for all his saintly slimness.  Up in the hollow inside, in the crook of his arm, lay the oilskin package he had kept these long years through, waiting for to-night.

“If ever you prayed for mortals in peril, pray, for the love of God, for all of us this night!” I told him.  And with the package in a fold of my cassock I went back across the dark garden and let myself into the Butterfly Man’s rooms, and was hardly inside the door when he himself returned.

“Didn’t meet a soul.  And they got in without waking anybody in the house,” said he complacently, rubbing his hands before the fire.  “I waited until they showed a light upstairs.  She’s all right, now Madame’s with her.”

“Have you—­have you thought of anything—­any way, John?” I quavered, and wondered if he heard my heart dunting against my ribs.

“Why, I’ve thought that she’s got until to-morrow night to come to terms,” said he, and turned to face me.  “And she can’t accept them.  Nobody could—­that is, not a girl like her.  As for Inglesby, he might push Eustis under, but he wouldn’t have been so cocksure of her if it wasn’t for those letters.  She’s been afraid of what might happen if Eustis or Laurence found out about them—­somebody ran the risk of being put to bed with a shovel.  There’s where they had her.  A bit unbearable to think of, isn’t it?” He spoke so mildly that I looked up with astonishment and some disappointment.

“Why,” said I, ruefully, “if that’s as far as you’ve gone, we are still at the starting point.”