“And what of my father?” he added instantly.

She told him.  Mr. Audrey was in Derby, still sick from his fit.  He was in Mr. Columbell’s house.  She had not seen him.

“Robin,” she said (and she used the old name, utterly unknowing that she did so), “we must speak with Mr. Biddell presently about your case.  But there is a word or two I have to say first.  We can have two hours here, if you wish it.”

Robin put his hands behind him on to the table and jumped lightly, so that he sat on it, facing her.

“If you will not sit on the table, Mr. Biddell, I fear there is only that block of wood.”

He pointed to a, block of a tree set on end.  It served him, laid flat, as a pillow.  The lawyer went across to it.

“The judges, I hear, are come to-night,” said the priest.

She bowed.

“Yes; but your case will not be up for three or four days yet.”

“Why, then, I shall have time—­”

She lifted her hand sharply a little to check him.

“You will not have much time,” she said, and paused again.  A sharp contraction came and went in the muscles of her throat.  It was as if a band gripped her there, relaxed, and gripped again.  She put up her own hand desperately to tear at her collar.

“Why, but—­” began the priest.

She could bear it no more.  His resolute cheerfulness, his frank astonishment, were like knives to her.  She gave one cry.

“Topcliffe is come ...  Topcliffe!...” she cried.  Then she flung her arm across the table and dropped her face on it.  No tears came from her eyes, but tearing sobs shook and tormented her.

It was quite quiet after she had spoken.  Even in her anguish she knew that.  The priest did not stir from where he sat a couple of feet away; only the swinging of his feet ceased.  She drove down her convulsions; they rose again; she drove them down once more.  Then the tears surged up, her whole being relaxed, and she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Marjorie,” said the grave voice, as steady as it had ever been, “Marjorie.  This is what we looked for, is it not?...  Topcliffe is come, is he?  Well, let him come.  He or another.  It is for this that we have all looked since the beginning.  Christ His Grace is strong enough, is it not?  It hath been strong enough for many, at least; and He will not surely take it from me who need it so much....” (He spoke in pauses, but his voice never faltered.) “I have prayed for that grace ever since I have been here....  He hath given me great peace in this place....  I think He will give it me to the end....  You must pray, my ... my child; you must not cry like that.”

(She lifted her agonized face for a moment, then she let it fall again.  It seemed as if he knew the very thoughts of her.)

“This all seems very perfect to me,” he went on.  “It was yourself who first turned me to this life, and you knew surely what you did.  I knew, at least, all the while, I think; and I have never ceased to thank God.  And it was through your hands that the letter came to me to go to Fotheringay.  And it was in your house that I was taken....  And it was Mr. Maine’s beads that they found on me when they searched me here—­the pair of beads you gave me.”