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Updated: June 4, 2025
His first impulse had been to approach the Vicar of Meade Cantorum, but on second thoughts he had rejected him in favour of Mr. Dorward, who was not so likely to suffer from respect for paternal authority. "Look here, Hacking, will you swear not to say a word about what I'm going to tell you?"
Rudolph, here am I, and there is the world. Do I not represent other things?" "God knows you do!" he muttered. "I, too, am weary of singing. I want a long rest a long rest and a better name than my own. Don't shrink away from me. It isn't so wonderful, after all. Bellamy, the Englishman, came to me a few hours ago. He was Dorward's friend. He knew well what Dorward carried.
"What I am going to tell you is surprising, but I had it from Dorward himself. When he reached the Palace, the Chancellor was practically insane. His doctors were trying to persuade him to go to his room and lie down, but he heard Dorward's voice and insisted upon seeing him.
Then what you must do is tear up your sheets and let yourself down into the garden. Hacking will whistle three times if all's clear, and then you must climb over into his garden and run as hard as you can to the corner of the road where I'll be waiting for you in a cab. I'll go up to London with you and see you off from Waterloo, which is the station for Green Lanes where Father Dorward lives.
"They were together for scarcely more than an hour," Dorward murmured. "Long enough," Bellamy answered. "That little room in the Palace, my friend, may yet become famous." "If you and I could buy its secrets," Dorward remarked, finally shaping a cigarette and lighting it, "we should be big bidders, I think.
"I'll do that, Lidderdale." "I should think you jolly well would," Mark exclaimed scornfully. Mark spent a long time over the telegram to Dorward; in the end he decided that it would be safer to assume that the priest would shelter and hide Cyril rather than take the risk of getting an answer. The final draft was as follows: Dorward Green Lanes Medworth Hants
In the end what between Dorward's encouragement of Mark's ritualistic tendencies and the "spiking up" process to which he was himself being subjected, Ogilvie was glad when a fortnight later Dorward took himself off to his own living, and he expressed a hope that Mark would perceive Dorward in his true proportions as a dear good fellow, perfectly sincere, but just a little, well, not exactly mad, but so eccentric as sometimes to do more harm than good to the Movement.
"Bellamy," Dorward exclaimed, speaking hoarsely and still a little out of breath, "I guess I've had the biggest slice of luck that was ever dealt out to a human being. If only I can get safe out of this city, I tell you I've got the greatest scoop that living man ever handled." "You don't mean that " Dorward wiped his forehead and interrupted.
All the same, my message will come from the lips of the Chancellor immediately after this wonderful meeting." "He makes use of you," Bellamy declared, "to throw dust into our eyes and yours." "Even so," Dorward admitted, "I don't care so long as I get the copy. It's good-bye, I suppose?" Bellamy nodded. "I shall go on to Berlin, perhaps, to-morrow," he said. "I can do no more good here. And you?"
"Where is it?" she asked quickly. "You have seen it?" "Dorward would not give it up," he said bitterly. "While we argued in our sitting-room at the hotel the police arrived. Dorward escaped through the bedroom and down the service stairs. He spoke of trying to catch the Orient Express to-night, but I doubt if they will ever let him leave the city." "It is wonderful, this," she murmured softly.
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