John's face darkened as a ripe cornfield does when the sun dies away from it.
“I am sorry to tell you that the trustees, having had a favourable offer for this property——”
“Well?” His great staring eyes had stopped the man.
“——have decided to sell.”
“Sell? Did you say se——? To whom? What?”
“To tell you the truth, to the syndicate of a music hall.”
John staggered back, breathing audibly. “Now if a man had to believe that—Do you know if I thought such a thing could happen——”
“I'm sorry you take the matter so seriously, Father Storm. It's true you've spent money on the property, but, believe me, the trustees will derive no profit——”
“Profit? Money? Do you suppose I'm thinking of that, and not of the desecration, the outrage, the horror? But who are they? Is that man—Lord——”
The Greek had nodded his head, and John flung open the door. “Out of this! Out of it, you Judas!” And almost before the Greek had crossed the threshold the door was banged at his back.