"How's the cash list to-day?" Sam asked.
"Pretty fair," answered his father, "matter of five pound odd. It's me getting hold of that wafer, it's sent the subscriptions up wonderful. I wouldn't part——"
Sam, who was sitting with his back to the door of the room, saw his father's jaw drop suddenly. His voice died away with a murmur, his face went pale, his eyes protruded.
The younger man wheeled round his chair. Then he started up, with an exclamation of surprise and fear.
Both the Protestant champions, indeed, behaved as if they had been discovered in some fraud by an agent of the law.
Two people had come suddenly into the room, without knocking or being announced. The secretaries saw the blanched face of a clerk behind them.
During its existence, the Luther League had welcomed some fairly well-known folk within its doors.
This afternoon, however, a most unexpected honour had been paid to it—probably the reason of Hamlyn's extreme uneasiness.
A broad, square man of considerable height, with a stern, furrowed face, wearing an apron and gaiters, stood there, with a thunder-cloud of anger on his face.
It was His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury.