“Well, I should say, if you press me, that I fear Mr. Glenarm, your grandfather, burned the plans when he left here the last time. I hope you will pardon me, sir, for seeming to reflect upon him.”

“Reflect upon the devil! What was his idea, do you suppose?”

“I think, sir, if you will pardon—”

“Don’t be so fussy!” I snapped. “Damn your pardon, and go on!”

“He wanted you to study out the place for yourself, sir. It was dear to his heart, this house. He set his heart upon having you enjoy it—”

“I like the word—go ahead.”

“And I suppose there are things about it that he wished you to learn for yourself.”

“You know them, of course, and are watching me to see when I’m hot or cold, like kids playing hide the handkerchief.”

The fellow turned and faced me across the table.

“Mr. Glenarm, as I hope God may be merciful to me in the last judgment, I don’t know any more than you do.”

“You were here with Mr. Glenarm all the time he was building the house, but you never saw walls built that weren’t what they appeared to be, or doors made that didn’t lead anywhere.”

I summoned all my irony and contempt for this arraignment. He lifted his hand, as though making oath.

“As God sees me, that is all true. I was here to care for the dead master’s comfort and not to spy on him”

“And Morgan, your friend, what about him?”

“I wish I knew, sir.”

“I wish to the devil you did,” I said, and flung out of the room and into the library.

At eleven o’clock I heard a pounding at the great front door and Bates came to announce a caller, who was now audibly knocking the snow from his shoes in the outer hall.

“The Reverend Paul Stoddard, sir.”

The chaplain of St. Agatha’s was a big fellow, as I had remarked on the occasion of his interview with Olivia Gladys Armstrong by the wall. His light brown hair was close-cut; his smooth-shaven face was bright with the freshness of youth. Here was a sturdy young apostle without frills, but with a vigorous grip that left my hand tingling. His voice was deep and musical,—a voice that suggested sincerity and inspired confidence.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been neighborly, Mr. Glenarm. I was called away from home a few days after I heard of your arrival, and I have just got back. I blew in yesterday with the snow-storm.”

He folded his arms easily and looked at me with cheerful directness, as though politely interested in what manner of man I might be.

“It was a fine storm; I got a great day out of it,” I said. “An Indiana snow-storm is something I have never experienced before.”