A little more than a year had passed since the inquest on Sir Reginald and Koda Bux. For Vane Maxwell, the Missionary to Midas, as every one now called him, it had been a continued series of tribulations and triumphs. From Land’s End to John o’ Groats, and from Cork Harbour to Aberdeen he had preached the Gospel that he had found in the Sermon on the Mount. He had, in truth, proved himself to be the Savonarola of the twentieth century, not only in words, but also in the effects of his teaching.

He had asked tens and hundreds of thousands of professing Christians, just as he had asked the congregation of St. Chrysostom, to choose honestly between their creed and their wealth, to be honest, as he had said then, with themselves or with God; to choose openly and in the face of all men between the service of God and of Mammon. And his appeal had been answered throughout the length and breadth of the land.

Never since the days of John Wesley had there been such a re-awakening of religious, really religious, feeling in the country. Just as the rich Italians brought their treasures of gold and silver and jewels and heaped them up under the pulpit of Savonarola in the market-places, so hundreds of men and women of every social degree recognised the plain fact that they could not be at the same time honestly rich and honestly Christians, and so, instead of material treasure, they had sent their cheques to Vane.

Before the year was over he found himself nominally the richest man in the United Kingdom. He had more than five millions sterling at his absolute disposal, almost countless thousands of pounds given up for conscience’ sake because he had said that honest Christians could not own them; and he and Father Philip, Father Baldwin and Ernshaw, having given many hours and days of anxious consideration to the very pressing question as to which was the best way of disposing of this suddenly, and, as they all confessed, unexpectedly acquired wealth, decided to devote it to the extirpation, so far as was possible in England, of that Cancer in Christianity which Christians of the canting sort call the Social Evil.

As Jesus of Nazareth had said to the woman taken in adultery, “Go thou and sin no more!” so the Missionary and his helpers said:

“You have sinned more through necessity than choice, and the Society which denies you redemption is a greater sinner than you, since it drives you into deeper sin. There is no hope for you here. Civilization has no place for you, save the streets or the ‘homes,’ which are, if anything, more degrading than the streets.

“Those who are willing to save themselves we will save so far as earthly power can help you. We will give you homes where you will not be known, where, perhaps, you may begin to lead a new life, where it may be that you will become wives and mothers, as good as those who now, when they pass you in the street, draw their skirts aside fearing lest they should touch yours. And, if not that, at least we will save you from the horrible necessity of keeping alive, by living a life of degradation.”

The foregoing paragraphs are, to all intents and purposes, a precis of a charter of release to the inhabitants of the twentieth century Christian Inferno which was drawn up by Dora Russell the day before she yielded to Ernshaw’s year-long wooing, and consented to be his helpmeet as well as his helper.

It was scattered broadcast in hundreds of thousands all over the country. Storms of protest burst forth from all the citadels of orthodoxy and respectability. It seemed monstrous that these women, who had so far defied all the efforts of official Christianity to redeem them, should be bribed as many put it bribed back into the way of virtue, if that were possible, with the millions which had been coaxed out of the pockets of sentimental Christians by this Mad Missionary of Mayfair as one of the smartest of Society journals had named him.

But, for all that, the Mad Missionary said very quietly to Ernshaw a few hours before he intended to marry him to Dora:

“These good Christians, as they think themselves, are wofully wrong. It seems absolutely impossible to get them to see this matter in its proper perspective. They can’t or won’t see that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it is one of absolute necessity the choice between that and misery and starvation. They don’t see that this accursed commercial system of ours condemns thousands of girls

“Yes,” interrupted Dora, “I know what you are going to say. I was a shop-girl myself once, a slave, a machine that was not allowed to have a will or even a soul of its own, and I

Before she could go on, the door of the Den at Warwick Gardens where the conversation had taken place opened, and Sir Arthur came in with some letters in his hands.

“I just met the postman on the doorstep,” he said, “and he gave me these.

“Here’s one for you, Vane. There’s one for me, and one for Miss Russell almost the last time I shall call you that, Miss Dora, eh?”

Vane tore his envelope open first. As he unfolded a sheet of note-paper, a cheque dropped out. The letter was in Carol’s handwriting. His eye ran over the first few lines, and he said:

“Good news! Rayburn and Carol are coming home next week and bringing a fine boy with them at least, that is what the fond mother says and eh? Rayburn has made another half million out there, and, just look, Ernshaw yes, it is a cheque for a hundred thousand pounds, to be used, as she says here in the postscript, ‘as before.’”

“Oh, I’m so glad,” exclaimed Dora, as she was opening her own envelope. “Fancy having Carol back again. Mark, I won’t marry you till she comes. You must put everything off. I won’t hear of it and oh look!” she went on, after a little pause, “Sir Arthur, read that, please. Isn’t it awful?”

“The mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceeding small,” said Sir Arthur when he had looked over the sheet of note-paper. “Shall I read it, Miss Russell?”

Dora nodded, and he read aloud:

“I have just heard that my husband, whom, as you know, I have not seen since that terrible day at the Abbey, has died in a fit of delirium tremens. The lawyers tell me that everything will be mine. If so, Garthorne Abbey shall go back to the Church if Vane will take it, and if you will let me come and help you in your work.”

“Thank God!” said Sir Arthur, as he gave the letter back, “not for his death, for that was, after all that we have heard, inevitable; but for what Enid has done. Vane, she is your latest and, perhaps, after all, your worthiest convert. And now, what’s this?”

He tore open his own envelope, which was addressed in the handwriting of one of his solicitor’s clerks. The letter was very brief and formal, but before he had read it through his face turned grey under the bronze of his skin. He passed it over to Vane, and left the room without a word.

Vane looked at the few formal lines, and, as he folded the letter up with trembling fingers, he said almost in a whisper:

“The tragedy is over. My mother is dead.”