His face was ghastly save for a faint dis-colouration about one eye; but he was playing his part royally still. His bitterest enemy must have admired his courage; his severest critic might have wept, so pitiful was the old man's make-believe.
On a table at his side were all the pathetic little properties that made the man. There was his snuff-box; there the filigree chain; a scent-bottle; a rosary; a missal. On his bed was the silver-mounted ebony cane; and beneath his pillow, artfully concealed to show, the butt-end of his pistol.
Over his head was the photograph of a man whom the curate recognised instantly as Sir Edward Carson; and beneath the photograph was an illuminated text which on closer scrutiny turned out to be the Solemn League and Covenant.
Facing the great Unionist Leader on the opposite wall was the Emperor of the French. The likeness between the two famous Imperialists was curiously marked; and they seemed aware of it, staring across the room at each other over the body of their prostrate admirer with intimacy, understanding, mutual admiration. Almost you expected them to wink at each other—a knowing wink.
Mr. Spink now told his chief the whole story as it affected Alf. Much of it the Archdeacon had already heard from his wife.
"I'd better see him," he now said grimly.
And the Archdeacon was not the only one who wanted to see Alf just then. That afternoon, just as he was starting out with the car, he was called up on the telephone.
The Director of Recruiting wished to see him at the Town Hall—to-morrow—11 a.m., sharp. The voice was peremptory and somehow familiar. Alf was perturbed. What was up now?
"Who is the Director of Recruiting here?" he asked Mr. Trupp a few minutes later.
"Colonel Lewknor," the old surgeon answered. "Just appointed. All you young men of military age come under him now."