Trenholme looked down at the sheet of paper before him, and absently made marks upon it with his pen.  He was thinking of the spiritual condition of a soul which had no ardent desire for the advent of its Lord, but it was not of the young man he was thinking.

“Of course,” the latter continued, “I didn’t suppose myself there was anything in it—­at least”—­candidly—­“I didn’t in the day-time; but when I found he’d gone out in the dark, and thought of all the times I’d heard him praying—­” he broke off.  “He’s real good.  I’m a better fellow for having lived with him so long, but I wish to goodness I’d never caught him.”

The word “caught,” so expressive of the American’s relation to the wanderer, roused Trenholme’s attention, and he asked now with interest, “May I inquire why you did take possession of him and bring him here?”

“Well, as to that, I don’t know that I’d like to tell,” said the young man, frankly.  “Since I’ve lived with him I’ve seen my reasons to be none of the best.”  He fidgeted now, rising, cap in hand.  “I ought to go and look after him,” he said, “if I only knew where to go.”

It struck Trenholme that Harkness had an idea where to go, and that his questioning was really a prelude to its announcement.  “Where do you think he has gone?”

“Well, if you ask me what I think, Principal—­but, mind, I haven’t a word of proof of it—­I think he’s gone up the mountain, and that he’s not gone there alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I think drunken Job’s wife, and old McNider, and some more of the Second Advent folks, will go with him, expecting to be caught up.”

“Impossible!” cried Trenholme, vehemently.  Then more soberly, “Even if they had such wild intentions, the weather would, of course, put a stop to it.”

Harkness did not look convinced.  “Job’s threatened to beat his wife to death if she goes, and it’s my belief she’ll go.”

He twirled his hat as he spoke.  He was, in fact, trying to get the responsibility of his suspicions lightened by sharing them with Trenholme at this eleventh hour, but his hearer was not so quickly roused.

“If you believe that,” he said coolly, “you ought to give information to the police.”

“The police know all that I know.  They’ve heard the people preaching and singing in the streets.  I can’t make them believe the story if they don’t.  They’d not go with me one step on a night like this—­not one step.”

There was a short silence.  Trenholme was weighing probabilities.  On the whole, he thought the police were in the right of it, and that this young man was probably carried away by a certain liking for novel excitement.

“In any case,” he said aloud, “I don’t see what I can do in the matter.”

Harkness turned to leave as abruptly as he had come in.  “If you don’t, I see what I can do.  I’m going along there to see if I can find them.”