"Very well. I think we understand each other. This poor young woman, I gather, was the daughter of a prominent parishioner?"
"Of a prominent resident in my parish—yes."
"But she herself was conspicuous in parochial work? Is it a fact that she played the organ in church?"
"It is."
The fact was noted, the pen laid down; and the little old man, who looked only great across his desk, leant back in his chair.
"I am exceedingly anxious that you should have fair play. Let me say plainly that these are not my first inquiries into the matter. I am informed—I wish to know with what truth—that the young woman disappeared for several months before her death?"
"It is quite true."
"And returned to give birth to her child?"
"And to die!" said Carlton, in his grim determination neither to shield nor to spare himself in any of his answers. But his hands were clenched, and his white face glistened with his pain.
The bishop watched him with an eye grown mild with understanding, and a heart hot with mercy for the man who had no mercy on himself. But the tight mouth never relaxed, and the peculiar voice was unaltered when it broke the silence. It was the voice of justice, neither kind nor unkind, severe nor lenient, only grave, deliberate, matter-of-fact.