An old negro appeared, dressed in a swallow-tailed coat. His hair was as white as his master's, and his face creased with age.
"Sam," said Mr. Bentley, "I have brought home a gentleman for supper."
"Yassah, Misteh Ho'ace. I was jest agwine to open up de blin's."
He lifted the wire screens and flung back the shutters, beamed on the rector as he relieved him of his hat, and noiselessly retired. Curiosity, hitherto suppressed by more powerful feelings, awoke in Hodder speculations which ordinarily would have been aroused before: every object in the room bespoke gentility, was eloquent of a day when wealth was honoured and respected: photographs, daguerreotypes in old-fashioned frames bore evidence of friendships of the past, and over the marble mantel hung a portrait of a sweet-faced woman in the costume of the thirties, whose eyes reminded Hodder of Mr. Bentley's. Who was she?
Hodder wondered. Presently he found himself before a photograph on the wall beyond, at which he had been staring unconsciously.
"Ah, you recognize it," said Mr. Bentley.
"St. John's!"
"Yes," Mr. Bentley repeated, "St. John's." He smiled at Hodder's glance of bewilderment, and put his hand on the younger man's arm. "That picture was taken before you were born, sir, I venture to say—in 1869. I am very fond of it, for it gives the church in perspective, as you see. That was Mr. Gore's house"—he indicated a square, heavily corniced mansion—"where the hotel now stands, and that was his garden, next the church, where you see the trees above the wall."
The rector turned again and looked at his host, who, was gazing at the picture thoughtfully.
"I ought to have remembered," he said. "I have seen your name in the church records, sir, and I have heard Mr. Waring speak of you."