ned, picked up his hat, and slipped out
of the door, with a step that was almost a slink.

As Mr. Rimmon passed down the street he knew that he had reached a
crisis in his life. He went to see Wickersham, but that gentleman was in
no mood for condolences. Everything had gone against him. He was facing
utter ruin. Rimmon's upbraiding angered him.

"By the way, you are the very man I wanted to see," he said grimly. "I
want you to sign a note for that twenty thousand I lost by you when you
insisted on my holding that stock."

Rimmon's jaw fell. "That you held for me? Sign a note! Twenty-six
thousand!"

"Yes. Don't pretend innocence--not on me. Save that for the pulpit. I
know you," said the other, with a chilling laugh.

"But you were to carry that. That was a part of our agreement. Why,
twenty thousand would take everything I have."

"Don't play that on me," said Wickersham, coldly. "It won't work. You
can make it up when you get your widow."

Rimmon groaned helplessly.

"Come; there is the note. Sign."

Rimmon began to expostulate, and finally refused pointblank to sign.
Wickersham gazed at him with amusement.

"You sign that, or I will serve suit on you in a half-hour, and we will
see how the Rev. Mr. Rimmmon stands when my lawyers are through with
him. You will believe in hell then, sure enough."

"You won't dare do it. Your marriage would come out. Mrs. Lancaster
would--"

"She knows it," said Wickersham, calmly. And, as Rimmon looked
sceptical, "I told her myself to spare you the trouble. Sign." He rose
and touched a bell.

Rimmon, with a groan, signed the paper.

"You must have showed her my letter!"

"Of course, I did."

"But you promised me not to. I am ruined!"

"What have I to do with that? 'See thou to that,'" said Wickersham, with
a bitter laugh.

Rimmon's face paled at the quotation. He, too, had betrayed his Lord.

"Now go." Wickersham pointed to the door.

Mr. Rimmon went home and tried to write a letter to Mrs. Lancaster, but
he could not master his thoughts. That pen that usually flowed so glibly
failed to obey him. He was in darkness. He saw himself dishonored,
displaced. Wickersham was capable of anything. He did not know where to
turn. He thought of his brother clergymen. He knew many good men who
spent their lives helping others. But something deterred him from
applying to them now. To some he had been indifferent, others he had
known only socially. Yet others had withdrawn