and was flapping his arms under his
armpits. "Cold job, sir. Think I've had enough of it. Ha'past two, and a
mile from St. Margaret's yet, sir. Got a long step home, sir, and the
missis looking out for me this hour and more."

The night porter of the hotel had opened the cab door, but not for an
instant did Paul's purpose waver. "I'm sorry, my good fellow, but we
must reach the convent, as I tell you."

"Won't to-morrow do, sir? Comfortable quarters, sir. Can recommend 'em,"
with a tip of his hand over his shoulder.

"We must get to the convent to-night, my man."

The cabman returned to his horse's head with a grunt of dissatisfaction.
"Porter, can you keep a bed for me here? I shall be back in an hour,"
said Paul. The porter signified assent, and once again the cab moved off
on its slow journey.

As it passed out of Trafalgar Square by way of Charing Cross, the air
suddenly lightened. It was as if waves of white mist rolled over the
yellow vapor. The cabman threw away his torch, mounted his box, and set
off at a trot. When he reached Parliament Square the fog was gone. The
great clock of Westminster was striking three; the sky was a dun gray
behind the clocktower, and the dark mass of the abbey could be dimly
seen.

The cab drew up on the south-west of Abbey Gardens and before a portico
railed in by an iron gate. The lamp burning on the sidewalk in front
cast a hazy light on what seemed to be a large brick house plain in
every feature.

"This is Saint Margaret's, sir. Eight shillings, sir, if you please."

Paul dismissed the cabman and rang the bell; the hollow tongue sent out
a startling reverberation into the night. The sky to the east was
breaking; thin streaks of a lighter gray foretold the dawn.

The door opened and the iron gate swung back. A sister carrying an open
oil lamp motioned them to enter.

"Can I see the superior?" said Paul.

"She is newly risen," said the sister, and she fixed the lamp to a
bracket in the wall and went away. They were left in a bare, chill,
echoing hall.

The next moment a line of nuns in their coifs passed close by them with
quick and silent steps. At that gray hour they had risen for matins.
Some of them were pale and emaciated, and one that was palest and most
worn went by with drooping head and hands that inlaced her rosary. Paul
stepped back a pace. The nun moved steadily onward with the rest. Never
a sign of recognition, never an upward glance, only the quivering