“Aw, heard enough,” said Cæsar, “meetings, and conferences, and conventions, and I don't know what.”
“Oh, oh, I see,” said Ross, with a look at Kate.
“They're doing without hell in England now-a-days—that's a quare thing, sir. Conditional immorality they're calling it—the singlerest thing I know. Taking hell away drops the tailboard out of a man's religion, eh?”
The time for closing came, and Philip had waited in vain. Only one cut had come his way, and that had not been his own. As he rose to go, Kate had said, “We didn't expect to see you again for six months, Mr. Christian.”
“So it seems,” said Philip, and Kate laughed a little, and that was all the work of his evening, and the whole result of his errand.
Cæsar was waiting for him in the porch. His face was white, and it twitched visibly. It was plain to see that the natural man was fighting in Cæsar. “Mr. Christian, sir,” said he, “are you the gentleman that came here to speak to me for Peter Quilliam?”
“I am,” said Philip.
“Then do you remember the ould Manx saying, 'Perhaps the last dog may be catching the hare?'”
“Leave it to me, Mr. Cregeen,” said Philip through his teeth.
Half a minute afterwards he was swinging down the dark road homewards, by the side of Ross, who was drawling along with his cold voice.