“False alarm!” said a hard-featured Toil, well used to mankind. “Some fool has found out that he owns a soul. ’Wants work. I’d cure him!...”
“Hush!” said a Love in Armour, stamping his mailed foot. The office listened.
“’Bad case?” Death demanded at last.
“Rank bad, Sir. They are holding back the name,” said the Chief Seraph. The S.O.S. signals grew more desperate, and then ceased with an emphatic thump. The Love in Armour winced.
“Firing-party,” he whispered to St. Peter. “’Can’t mistake that noise!”
“What is it?” St. Peter cried nervously.
“Deserter; spy; murderer,” was the Chief Seraph’s weighed answer. “It’s out of my department—now. No—hold the line! The name’s up at last.”
It showed for an instant, broken and faint as sparks on charred wadding, but in that instant a dozen pens had it written. St. Peter with never a word gathered his robes about him and bundled through the door, headlong for The Gate.
“No hurry,” said Death at his elbow. “With the present rush your man won’t come up for ever so long.”
“’Never can be sure these days. Anyhow, the Lower Establishment will be after him like sharks. He’s the very type they’d want for propaganda. Deserter—traitor—murderer. Out of my way, please, babies!”