Joyce laughed mirthlessly.
“Listen,” he said. “Let us come to some understanding. I am a member of the criminal classes, and you are a bishop of the English church. Perhaps the God you believe in may condescend to judge between us. The woman who was once your wife appealed to you when she was sick and penniless, and you disregarded her appeal. I, a poverty-stricken outcast supported her, gave her a home, and reverenced her as a sacred trust. 'Whether of them twain did the will of his father?’”
Everard stared at him in wide-eyed agitation. A customer entered with a book he had selected from the stall outside. Joyce went forward, received the money and returned to his former position by the Bishop.
“I received no appeal from her,” said the latter.
“You did, through me. She was too ill to write.”
“When was this?”
“Last November, a year ago.”
Everard reflected for a moment and then a sudden memory flashed upon him, and an expression of deep pain came over his face.
“God forgive me! I threw your letter into the fire unopened.”
“Might I ask your reason?” asked Joyce, feeling a grim joy in his cousin’s humiliation.