She answered almost guiltily: "No number! Just stop here! Put me down here!" She rose, gathering her long cloak about her.
Try as she might, she could not control her excitement, as she crossed the roadway and entered Hellier Crescent after a week's absence. Her hand was trembling as she raised the heavy knocker on the familiar door; and her voice shook as she repeated the necessary formula.
There was a slight delay—a slight hesitancy on the part of the door-keeper; then the slide, which had opened at her knock, closed with a click, and the massive door swung back.
She stepped forward eagerly, but on the moment that she entered the hall her heart sank. With a thrill of apprehension she saw that in place of the humble member of the congregation who usually attended there, the tall, fair-bearded Arch-Mystic known as George Norov was guarding the door. Small though the incident might appear, it conveyed to her, as no spoken declaration could have done, the spirit of action and vigilance reigning in the House.
While the thought flashed through her mind, Norov surveyed her from his great height.
"You are in good time, my child; the Gathering is for eight o'clock."
She looked up at him.
"Yes," she said, quickly. "I know it is for eight o'clock, but I have come early. I have come because I wish—" Her courage faltered before the intent, searching gaze of his blue eyes.
"I have come," she added, with gathered resolution, "because I desire private Audience with the Prophet—because there is something on my Soul of which I must unburden myself."
The Arch-Mystic looked at her and his eyes seemed cold as steel.