“So it seems,” said St. Peter as a wireless cut in with the muffled note of some one singing (sorely out of tune), to an accompaniment of desultory poppings:
“Unless you can love as the Angels love With the breadth of Heaven be——”
“Twickt!” It broke off. The record showed a name. The waiting Seraphs stiffened to attention with a click of tense quills.
“As you were!” said the Chief Seraph. “He’s met her.”
“Who is she?” said St. Peter.
“His mother. You never get over your weakness for romance,” Death answered, and a covert smile spread through the Office.
“Thank Heaven, I don’t. But I really ought to be going——”
“Wait one minute. Here’s trouble coming through, I think,” Death interposed.
A recorder had sparked furiously in a broken run of S.O.S.’s that allowed no time for inquiry.
“Name! Name!” an impatient young Faith panted at last. “It can’t be blotted out.” No name came up. Only the reiterated appeal.