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Perhaps he realized the uselessness of such a proceeding. "Stay by all means!" he said, "but what's the idea?" Bernard took his pipe from his mouth. "I have a big fight before me, Everard boy," he said, "a fight against the sort of prejudice that kicked me out of the Charthurst job. It's got to be fought with the pen since I am no street corner ranter.
But I am on the way to getting it." Bernard Monck looked at him a moment longer, and let him go. "Are you sure you're wanting the right thing?" he said. It was not a question that demanded an answer, and Everard made none. He turned aside with a scarcely perceptible lift of the shoulders. "You haven't told me yet how you come to be here," he said. "Have you given up the Charthurst chaplaincy?"
"I believe you have heard me speak of my brother Bernard," he said, "chaplain of Charthurst Prison." Dacre nodded. "The fellow who writes to you every month. Well? What of him?" Monck's steady fingers detached and unfolded a letter. "You had better read for yourself," he said, and held it out. But curiously Dacre hung back as if unwilling to touch it.
"Can't you tell me what all the fuss is about?" he said irritably. Monck's hand remained inflexibly extended. He spoke, a jarring note in his voice. "Oh yes, I can tell you. But you had better see for yourself too. It concerns you very nearly. It was written in Charthurst Prison nearly six weeks ago, where a woman who calls herself your wife is undergoing a term of imprisonment for forgery."
I only see the work, and with God's help, that will be exactly what He intended it should be when He gave it to me to do." "Lucky man!" said Everard briefly. "Ah! I didn't think myself lucky when I had to give up the Charthurst chaplaincy." Bernard spoke through a haze of smoke. "I'm afraid I kicked a bit at first which was a short-sighted thing to do, I admit.
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