The Bishop's Mantle [antikvár]

CHAPTER I The young man in the taxi leaned forward. "Can you go faster?" he said to the driver. "It's a matter of life and death." The grubby man on the front seat turned, glimpsing again as he had done when he first picked up the fare a white set face above a clerical vest. "Do my best, Father," he answered respectfully. The young man half smiled. No need to disillusion him, he thought. The fact that he had not had time to change clothes might serve him to some advantage now. "Straight out Forest Avenue when you get to it, for about a mile," he added, "then left on Letheridge. I'll teH you the house." "Right, Father. I'll step on it." The car seemed to gather a new power from its deep mechanical subconscious. With a surprising spurt it escaped the downtown traffic and headed for the residential section. The young man, his face tense, kept watching the passing landmarks. When the car at last made the turn on Letheridge, he had already grasped the door handle. The houses were all large here, mostly of stone, standing well back in spacious grounds. As they neared one of the largest he spoke quickly. "Here, on the right. This next one. Go up to the drive. Thanks. That was good work!" The car was not yet out of motion when he sprang from it with his bag, leaving a bill on the seat by the driver. He took the stone steps at a bound. As he reached the great front door, it opened, as he felt sure it would, without his ring. Morris would be watching for him. He faced the old man servant in the wide hall. "Is he still . . ." Morris nodded. His eyes were red and his voice very husky. 1