“Maurice,” said Father Garnette. “Maurice, my dear fellow!”

“This woman,” the boy went on doggedly, “had no business here. She had no right to the Cup. She was evil. I know you — Father Garnette, I know.”

“Maurice, be quiet.”

“Can it, Pringle,” said the American.

“I tell you I know— ” The boy broke off and stared at the priest with a sort of frantic devotion. Father Garnette looked fixedly at him. If there was some sort of conflict between them the priest won, for the boy suddenly turned aside and walked away from them.

“What is it?” Nigel asked the doctor. “Is it poison?”

“It looks like it, certainly. Death was instantaneous. We must inform the police.”

“Is there a telephone anywhere near?”

“I believe there’s one in Father Garnette’s rooms.”

“His rooms?”

“Behind the altar,” said the doctor.

“Then — may I use it?”

“Is that absolutely necessary?” asked the priest.

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Kasbek. He looked at Nigel. “Will you do it?”

“I will if you like. I know a man at the Yard.”

“Do. What about the nearest relative? Anybody know who it is?”

“She lives alone,” said a girl who had not spoken before. “She told me once that she had no relations in England.”

“I see,” said Dr. Kasbek. “Well, then, perhaps you”—he looked at Nigel—“will get straight through to the police. Father Garnette, will you show this young man the way?”

“I had better return to my people, I think,” replied Father Garnette. “They will need me. Claude, show the way to the telephone.”

“Yes, Father.”

In a kind of trance Nigel followed the dark acolyte up the sanctuary steps to the altar. The willowy Claude drew aside a brocaded curtain to the left of the altar and revealed a door which he opened and went through, casting a melting glance upon Nigel as he did so.