“I like the altar,” the man continued. “The altar, Mr. Solent, is the one absolutely satisfactory object of worship left in our degenerate days.” There came into Mr. Urquhart’s face, as he uttered these words, an expression that struck Wolf as nothing less than Satanic.

“It⁠—does⁠—not⁠—matter⁠—to you then, Sir,” threw out Wolf cautiously, “what the altar represents?”

Mr. Urquhart smiled. “Eh?” he muttered. “Represents⁠—did you say?” And then in a vague, dreamy, detached manner he repeated the word “represents” several times, as if he were mentally examining it, as a connoisseur might examine some small object; but his voice, as he did this, grew fainter and fainter, and presently died away altogether.