ward to many interesting talks with him, the actual agent and superintendent of the work at Jerusalem, the trained eye and arm of the great and influential English Society.
And as for Spence, he had known him intimately ever since his first Oxford days, many years ago now. Harold Spence was like a brother to him — had always been that.
The first hour's conversation, desultory as it was, in a sense, showed him how full and varied his new life promised to be. After the noisy seclusion of Walktown he felt that he was now in the centre of things. Both Spence and Hands were thoroughly cultured men, and both were distinguished above the crowd in their respective spheres.
Basil heard keen, critical, "inside" talk for almost the first time. His two companions knew everybody, were at the hub of things. Two nights ago Spence had been talking to the Prime Minister for ten minutes. — The Daily Wire was the unofficial Government organ. Hands had been at Lambeth with the Archbishop, the president and patron of the Palestine Society. They were absolute types of the keen, vigorous, and young mental aristocracy which is always on the active service of English life. They belonged to the executive branch.
"I'm sorry, Basil," Spence said suddenly, "I've got a note for you from Father Ripon. I forgot to give it to you. He sent it down by a special messenger this morning. Here it is."
Father Ripon was the vicar of St. Mary's, Gortre's new chief.
He took the note and opened it, reading as follows:
"The Clergy House,
"St Mary's, Bloomsbury.
"Dear Mr. Gortre, — Friend Spence says that you will
