“Oh, nothing,” said Paul coolly, gripping the other’s wrists and holding him as a man might hold a child. “You wanted to be rid of it and I helped you.”
“Well, by Jove!” said Dalton, breaking into a laugh. “You are a cool one. And you have a most infernal grip. There was a time—but that is past, curse it! Let us go down to tea. What are you doing tonight?”
“Going to church.”
“To church?” laughed Dalton scornfully. “To church? You go to church? I used to go; I used to like to go to church. But,” with a great oath, “I’m done with it. I am done with the church and all that sort of bunkum.”
“Better come with me tonight,” said Paul. “I will take you where there is some good music at least. As to the preaching I can’t promise you anything.”
“Not on your life!” cried Dalton. He tore open the cupboard door. “Here, devil take you! you’ve thrown out my last bottle. I must get some more.”
“What about tea?” said Paul.
“Tea? No! No tea for me. The thought of eating makes me sick. I must have a drink. Young man,” he said, “go to church and stick to your church if you can and as long as you can.” He stumbled downstairs and left Paul looking after him in amazement and some pity.
CHAPTER XXIII
The night had fallen, black, with breaking clouds, and the moon struggling through, as Paul set out for church. Ignorant of the city’s streets, his instinct for direction, developed on many a northern trail, guided him aright as he cut across the city by back streets and lanes towards his destination.