On the day following the conference with the bishop the rector of Christ Church called at Philip Westgate's office. He did not seek a quarrel, but he did seek an explanation. He was not one to sit quietly or fearfully under insinuations which might or might not reflect on his personal character or his ministerial office. All his life he had lived in the open, clear of conscience, afraid of no man. He would live so still. Therefore he sought Westgate. The lawyer was in and was not engaged. He still had a bitter taste in his mouth from the night before. He was not wholly satisfied with what he had done at the conference with the bishop. Under the clear light of day, in the absence of any irritating impulses, his ardor cooled by the intervening night, he had come to the conclusion that, in his interrogation of Mary Bradley, he had overreached himself. He confided to his senior partner, Mr. Tracy, his opinion that he had made a damned fool of himself. And his senior partner fully agreed with him. It was, therefore, in a spirit of partial humility that he received the rector of Christ Church. But he made no explanations or apologies. He felt that whatever of this nature he might owe to others, he owed nothing to this man. He simply waited to be informed of the purpose of the call. He had not long to wait, for his visitor had a habit of going directly to the point.
"I want to talk with you, Mr. Westgate," he said, "about the incident of last evening. I would like to know your purpose in asking those last questions of Mrs. Bradley."
