“Oh, the world!” snorted the professor. “The world, sir! The Lord deliver us! It might do the world some good, I grant.”
“It is for love of her these men are in for the ministry.”
“You are wrong, sir. That is not their motive.”
“No, perhaps it is not. It would be unfair to say so, but yet she—”
“I know, sir. I know, sir. Bless my soul, sir. I know her. I knew her before you were born. But—yes, yes—” the professor spoke as if to himself—“for love of her men would attempt great things. You have these names, Craven? Ah! Alexander Stewart, Donald Cameron, Thomas Finch—Finch, let me see—ah, yes, Finch. His mother died after a long illness. Yes, I remember. A very sad case, a very sad case, indeed.”
“And yet not so sad, sir,” put in Craven. “At any rate, it did not seem so at the time. That night it seemed anything but sad. It was wonderful.”
The professor laid down his list and sat back in his chair.
“Go on, sir,” he said, gazing curiously at Craven. “I have heard a little about it. Let me see, it was the night of the great match, was it not?”
“Did you know about that? Who told you about the match, sir?”
“I hear a great many things, and in curious ways. But go on, sir, go on.”