of the injustice was worth more to my soul than
was the great cathedral I had been instrumental in building. I was
grieved that my friends had left me, but I knew at last that I had
cultivated them at the expense of greater friends--sacrifice and
humility. Shorn of my honors, in the rags and tatters left of my
greatness, I lay before my Master--and I gained more in peace than I
had ever known was in life."

"God!" Mark's very soul seemed to be speaking, and the single word
held the solemnity of a prayer. "This, then, is religion! Was it this
that I lost?"

"No one has lost, Mark, what he sincerely wishes to find."

CHAPTER VI

WHO IS RUTH?

Leaving Father Murray at the rectory, Mark went on to the hotel.
Entering the lobby, he gave vent to a savage objurgation as he
recognized the man speaking to the clerk. Mark's thoughts were no
longer of holy things, for the man was no other than Saunders, from
whom, for the past two weeks, Sihasset had been most pleasantly free.

"Damn!" he muttered. "I might have known he'd return to spoil it all."
Then, mustering what grace he could, Mark shook hands with the
detective, greeting him with a fair amount of cordiality, for,
personally, he rather liked the man. "You here!" he exclaimed. "I
scarcely expected ever to see you again."

Saunders grinned pleasantly, but still suspiciously, as he answered.
"I can't say the same of you, Mr. Griffin. I knew you would be here
when I returned; fact is, I came back to see you."

"Me? How could I cart books all over the world with me? What do you
want to see me for? No, no. I am bad material for you to work on.
Better go back to the Padre. He's what you call an 'easy mark,' isn't
he?"

"Oh, he's not so easy as you think, Griffin. By the way, have you
lunched?"

"No."

"You will join me then?"

"Thanks; I will."

"We can get into a corner and talk undisturbed."

But lunch was disposed of before Saunders began. When he did, it was
right in the middle of things.

"Griffin," he said, leaning over the table and looking straight at
Mark, "Griffin, what's your game? Let's have this thing out."

"I am afraid, Saunders," replied Mark, "that I must take refuge again
in the picturesque slang which the Padre thinks so expressive: I really
don't get you."

"Oh, yes, you do. What are you doing here?"

"Honestly, my good fellow," Mark began to show a little pique, "you
have remarkable curiosity about what isn't