And the curly-headed rector by his side made swift, emphatic answer,—
"Yes."
"Then why—"
Whittenden interrupted him.
"What do you believe, Brenton? For any man is bound to have some shreds of belief; that is, as long as he keeps out of the nearest asylum for the incurable insane."
"My belief, or my profession?"
"Hang your profession!" Whittenden said impatiently. "Or else, hang on to it, and keep still. But it's your belief I want, your creed, your working platform."
"How do you know I have one?" Brenton asked rather irritably, for Whittenden's attitude was distinctly less satisfying to him than it had been of yore.
"Because I know the kind of men Saint Peter's has been accustomed to demand. Also because I have talked to Reed Opdyke."
"And Opdyke told you—"