"You know I write," he said explanatorily. "He wanted me to write something about you."
"About me?"
"Yes."
"What a deep-dyed scoundrel he is!"
"Yes, he wanted to enlist me on the McSheen side, but—" his eyes twinkled. "Where do you go to church?" he suddenly asked me.
I told him, and I thought he smiled possibly at what I feared was a little flush in my face.
"To 'St. Mammon's!' Why don't you go to hear John Marvel? He is the real thing."
"John Marvel? Where is he?"
"Not far from where you say you live. He preaches out there—to the poor."
"In a chapel?" I inquired.