The bishop studied him. There was a curious gleam in his eye.
"Standish, I regret to say it to such an old friend, but you are a fool. Duty compels me to say so. I have blundered. I admit it freely. But…" He swept his arm about slowly, and there was a roll and thrill in his voice, "stormy waters could not shake me, nor tempests keep me from my path. The humblest man, when clad in the armor of a righteous cause, is more powerful than all the hosts of error."
His son restrained an impulse to cheer. When the old man got to talking in this fashion, he could stampede an audience of mummies. It was not so much what he said; it was the hypnotism of voice and bearing, orchestrated together, with the mesmeric eye and the latent persuasive kindliness.
"Often said so myself," agreed the colonel. "But look here, old fellow; I mean to say, demmit! — why did you cut along from The Grange last night without telling us where you were going? Almost had a search party out after you. Wife frantic, and all that."
"To prove my case, sir" the bishop said grimly. "And I am pleased to say. that I have proved it; and that I have information to lay before Scodand Yard. I travelled to my home for a brief visit, to consult my files… "
He folded his arms.
"Be prepared, Standish. I am going to place a bomb under you."
"Oh, my God!" said the colonel. "Easy, old fellow. Come, now; I mean to say, we were at school together—"
"Kindly stop misunderstanding me," interposed the bishop, whose face had assumed a sinister expression. "You were never a man of outstanding intelligence, but at least you can understand this. If I were to tell you—"
"Excuse me, sir," said a voice. A large policeman was addressing Colonel Standish. Young Donovan, who was in no mood to be accosted by policemen that day, backed away. "Excuse me," repeated the law. "You are Colonel Standish?"