On the following morning Falk was awakened by a maid servant who brought him a letter. He opened it and read:

Timothy x. 27, 28, 29.
First Corinth. vi. 3, 4, 5.

Dear Brother,
The grace and peace of our Lord J. C., the love of the father and the fellowship of the H. G., etc., Amen.

I read last night in the Grey Bonnet that you are going to edit the Torch of Reconciliation. Meet me in my office to-morrow morning.

Now he partially understood Lundell's riddle. He did not know Skore, the great champion of the Lord, personally; he knew nothing of the Torch of Reconciliation, but he was curious and decided to obey the insolent request.

At nine o'clock he was in Government Street, looking at the imposing four-storied house, the front of which, from cellar to roof, was covered by sign-boards: "Christian Printing office, Peace, Ltd., second floor. Editorial office, The Inheritance of the Children of God, half-landing floor. Publishing office, The Last Judgment, first floor. Publishing office, The Trump of Peace, second floor. Editorial office of the children's paper, Feed My Lambs, first floor. Offices of the Christian Prayer House Society, Ltd., The Seat of Mercy. Loans granted against first securities, third floor. Come to Jesus, third floor. Employment found for respectable salesmen who can offer security. Foreign Missions Society, Ltd., Eagle, distribution of the profits of the year 1867 in coupons, second floor. Offices of the Christian Mission Steamer Zululu, second floor. The steamer will leave, D.V., on the 28th. Goods received against bill of lading and certificate at the shipping offices close to the landing-bridge where the steamer is loading. Needlework society 'Ant Heap' receives gifts, first floor. Clergymen's bands washed and ironed by the porter. Wafers at 1s. 6d. a pound obtainable from the porter. Black dress-coats for confirmation candidates let out. Unfermented wine (Mat. xix. 32) at 9½d. per quart; apply to the porter. (Bring your own jug.)"

On the ground floor, to the left of the archway, was a Christian bookshop. Falk stopped for a few moments and read the titles of the books exhibited in the window. It was the usual thing. Indiscreet questions, impudent charges, offensive familiarities. But his attention was mainly attracted to a number of illustrated magazines with large English woodcuts, displayed in the window in order to attract the passers-by. More especially the children's papers had an interesting table of contents, and the young man in the shop could have told anyone who cared to know that old men and women would pass hours before this window, lost in contemplation of the illustrations, which appeared to move their pious hearts and awaken memories of their vanished—and perhaps wasted—youth.

He climbed the broad staircase between Pompeian frescoes reminiscent of the path which does not lead to salvation, and came to a large room furnished with desks like a bank, but so far unoccupied by cashiers and book-keepers. In the centre of the room stood a writing-table, of the size of an altar, resembling an organ with many stops; there was a complete key-board with buttons and semaphores with trumpet-like speaking-tubes, connected with all parts of the building. A big man in riding-boots was standing at the writing-desk. He wore a cassock fastened with one button at the neck which gave it a military appearance; the coat was surmounted by a white band and the mask of a sea captain, for the real face had long ago been mislaid in one of the desks or boxes. The big man was slapping the tops of his boots with his horsewhip, the handle of which was in the form of a symbolical hoof, and sedulously smoking and chewing a strong regalia, probably to keep his jaws in trim. Falk looked at the big man in astonishment.

This, then, was the last fashion in clergymen, for in men, too, there is a fashion. This was the great promulgator, who had succeeded in making it fashionable to be sinful, to thirst for mercy, to be poor and wretched, in fact, to be a worthless specimen of humanity in every possible way. This was the man who had brought salvation in vogue! He had discovered a gospel for smart society. The divine ordinance of grace had become a sport! There were competitions in viciousness in which the prize was given to the sinner. Paper chases were arranged to catch poor souls for the purpose of saving them; but also, let us confess it, battues for subjects on whom to demonstrate one's conversion in a practical manner, by venting on them the most cruel charity.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Falk," said the mask. "Welcome, dear friend! Perhaps you would like to see something of my work? Pardon me, I hope you are saved? Yes, this is the office of the printing works. Excuse me a second."

He stepped up to the organ and pulled out several stops. The answer was a long whistle.

"Just have a look round."

He put his mouth to one of the trumpets and shouted: "The seventh trumpet and the eighth woe! Composition MediÆval 8, titles Gothic, names spaced out."

A voice answered through the same trumpet: "No more manuscript." The mask sat down at the organ, and took a pen and a sheet of foolscap. The pen raced over the paper while he talked, cigar in mouth.

"This activity—is so extensive—that it would soon—be beyond my strength—and my health—would be worse—than it is—if I did—not look after it—so well."

He jumped up, pulled out another stop and shouted into another trumpet: "Proofs of 'Have you paid your Debt?'" Then he continued writing and talking.

"You wonder—why—I—wear riding-boots. It's first—because—I take riding exercises—for the sake of—my health...."

A boy appeared with proofs. The mask handed them to Falk. "Please read that," he said, speaking through his nose, because his mouth was busy, while his eyes shouted to the boy: Wait!

"... secondly—(a movement of the ears plainly conveyed to Falk that he had not lost the thread), because—I am of opinion—that a spiritually minded man should not—be conspicuous—by his appearance—for this would be—spiritual pride—and a challenge—to the scoffers."

A book-keeper entered. The mask acknowledged his salutation by a wrinkling of his forehead, the only part of his face which was unoccupied.

For want of something else to do, Falk took the proofs and began to read them. The cigar continued talking:

"Everybody—wears—riding-boots. I won't—be conspicuous—by my—appearance. I wear—riding-boots—because—I'm no humbug."

He handed the manuscript to the boy and shouted—with his lips: "Four sticks—Seventh trumpet for NystrÖm!"—and then to Falk:

"I shall be disengaged in five minutes. Will you come with me to the warehouse?"

And to the book-keeper:

"Zululu is charging?"

"Brandy," answered the book-keeper in a rusty voice.

"Everything all right?"

"Everything all right."

"In God's name, then! Come along Mr. Falk."

They entered a room the walls of which were lined with shelves, filled with piles of books. The mask touched them with his horsewhip and said proudly:

"I've written those! What do you think of that? Isn't it a lot? You, too, write—a little. If you stick to it, you might write as much."

He bit and tore at his cigar and spat out the tiny flakes which filled the air like flies and settled on the backs of the books. His face wore a look of contempt.

"The Torch of Reconciliation! Hm! I think it's a stupid name! Don't you rather agree with me? What made you think of it?"

For the first time Falk had a chance of getting in a word, for like all great men, the mask answered his own questions. His reply was in the negative but he got no further; the mask again usurped the conversation.

"I think it's a very stupid name. And do you really believe that it will draw?"

"I know nothing whatever about the matter; I don't know what you are talking about."

"You don't know?"

He took up a paper and pointed to a paragraph.

Falk, very much taken aback, read the following advertisement:

"Notice to subscribers: The Torch of Reconciliation. Magazine for Christian readers, about to appear under the editorship of Arvid Falk whose work has been awarded a prize by the Academy of Sciences. The first number will contain 'God's Creation,' by Hokan Spegel, a poem of an admittedly religious and profoundly Christian spirit."

Falk had forgotten Spegel and his agreement; he stood speechless.

"How large is the edition going to be? What? Two thousand, I suppose. Too small! No good! My Last Judgment was ten thousand, and yet I didn't make more than—what shall I say?—fifteen net."

"Fifteen?"

"Thousand, young man!"

The mask seemed to have forgotten his part and reverted to old habits.

"You know," he continued, "that I'm a popular preacher; I may say that without boasting, for all the world knows it. You know, that I'm very popular; I can't help that—it is so! I should be a hypocrite if I pretended not to know what all the world knows! Well, I'll give you a helping hand to begin with. Look at this bag here! If I say that it contains letters from persons—ladies—don't upset yourself, I'm a married man—begging for my portrait, I have not said too much."

As a matter of fact it was nothing but an ordinary bag which he touched with his whip.

"To save them and me a great deal of trouble, and at the same time for the sake of doing a fellow-man a kindness, I have decided to permit you to write my biography; then you can safely issue ten thousand copies of your first number and pocket a clear thousand."

"But, my dear pastor—he had it on the tip of his tongue to say captain—I know nothing at all about this matter."

"Never mind! Never mind! The publisher has himself written to me and asked me for my portrait. And you are to write my biography! To facilitate your work, I asked a friend to write down the principal points. You have only to write an introduction, brief and eloquent—a few sticks at the most. That's all."

So much foresight depressed Falk; he was surprised to find the portrait so unlike the original, and the friend's handwriting so much like that of the mask.

The latter, who had given him portrait and manuscript, now held out his hand expecting to be thanked.

"My regards to—the publisher."

He had so nearly said Smith, that a slight blush appeared between his whiskers.

"But you don't know my views yet," protested Falk.

"Views? Have I asked what your views are? I never ask anybody about his views. God forbid! I? Never!"

Once more he touched the backs of his publications with his whip, opened the door, let the biographer out and returned to his service at the altar.

Falk, as usual, could not think of a suitable answer until it was too late; when he thought of one, he was already in the street. A cellar window which happened to stand wide open (and was not covered with advertisements) received biography and portrait into safe keeping.

Then Falk went to the nearest newspaper office, handed in a protest against the Torch of Reconciliation, and resigned himself to starve.