“Oh, he’s a good old soul who was kicked out of the Church by the bishop for doing something or other. He’s useful to me—keeps my correspondence in order—spots the chaps that write the begging letters, and sees that they don’t get anything out of me, while he takes care that all the genuine ones get all that they deserve. He’s an Oxford man.”
“Playdell—Playdell,” said Harold. “Surely he can’t be the fellow that got run out for marrying people without a licence?”
“That’s his speciality,” said Archie. “Come along, chippie Chaplain. Chip in, and have a glass of something.”
A middle-aged man, wearing the coat and the tie of a cleric, entered the room with a smile and a bow to Harold.
“You’ve heard of Mr. Wynne, Play?” said Archie. “The Honourable Harold Wynne. He’s heard of you—yes, you bet your hoofs on that.”
“I dare say you’ve heard of me, Mr. Wynne,” said the man. “It’s the black sheep in a flock that obtain notoriety; the colourless ones escape notice. I’m a black sheep.”
“You’re about as black as they make them, old Play,” remarked Archie, with a prompt and kindly acquiescence. “But your blackness doesn’t go deeper than the wool.”
“You say that because you are always disposed to be charitable, Archie,” said Mr. Playdell. “Even with you I’m afraid that another notorious character is not so black as he’s painted.”
“Neither he is,” said Archie. “You know as well as I do that the devil is not so black as he used to be—he’s turning gray in his old age.”
“They treated me worse than they treated the Fiend himself, Mr. Wynne,” said Playdell. “They turned me out of the Church, but the Church still retains the Prince of Darkness. He is still the most powerful auxiliary that the Church knows.”