There was a low murmur and rustle among the audience, as well as among the semicircle of people on the dais.
The name of Father Joseph Edward attracted instant attention. Every one knew all about him; the slight uneasiness on the Bishop's face had not been unremarked. They all felt that something unusual and stimulating was imminent.
"It is Mr. Gilbert Lothian," the Bishop went on, "who wishes to address you. His name will be familiar to every one here. I do not know, and have not the least idea, as to what Mr. Lothian is about to say. All I know is that he is most anxious to speak this afternoon, and, even at this late hour pressure has been put upon me to alter the programme in this regard, which it is impossible for me to resist."
Now every one in the hall knew that some sensation was impending.
People nodded and whispered; people whispered and nodded. There was almost an apprehension in the air.
Why had this poet risen from the tomb as it were—this poet whose utter disappearance from social and literary life had been a three weeks' wonder—this poet whom everybody thought was dead, who, in his own personality, had become but a faint name to those who still read and were comforted by his poems.
Very many of that distinguished company had met Gilbert Lothian.
Nobody had known him well. His appearances in London society had been fugitive and he had shown no desire to enter into the great world. But still the best people had nearly all met him once or twice, and in the minds of most of them, especially the women, there was a not ungrateful memory of a man who talked well, had quite obviously no axe to grind, no personal effort to further, who was only himself and pleased to be where he was.
They were all talking to each other in low voices, wondering what the scandal was, wondering why Gilbert Lothian had disappeared, waked up to the fact of him, when Lothian himself came upon the platform.
Mr. Justice Harley vacated his seat and took the next chair, while Lothian sat down on the right of the Chairman.