u think you
could find time to read it?"

"Certainly."

"I will send it, then. Good night."

"I'll come down with you."

The professor let Chichester out. The rain was still falling in torrents.
Shrouded in his mackintosh, protected by his umbrella, the curate walked
away. Looking after him, Stepton thought:

"Very odd! It isn't only in the face. Even the figure, all covered up and
umbrella-roofed, seems to have something--he'll send me the sermon of the
man and his double to-morrow."

And on the morrow that sermon came by the first post. Having read it, the
professor promptly returned it to Chichester with the following note:

_The White House, Westminster.

Dear Mr. Chichester:_

Very glad to have had the opportunity of reading your interesting
discourse. If I had not known it was yours, and a sermon, I should have
said "a posthumous work of Robert Louis Stevenson." It does credit to
your imagination. If you care to publish, I should suggest "The
Cornhill." I know nothing about their terms.

Yours faithfully,

_G.R.E. Stepton._

By return of post, there came an urgent invitation to the professor to
visit Chichester's rooms in Hornton Street, "to continue a discussion
which has a special interest for me at this moment."

"Discussion!" thought Stepton, sitting down to accept, "What my man wants
is for me to goad him into revelation; and I'll do it."

The professor knew enough of psychology to be aware that in the very
depths of the human heart there is a desire which may perhaps be called
socialistic--the desire to share truth with one's fellow-men. Chichester
was scourged by this desire. But whether what he wished to share was
truth, or only what he believed to be truth, was the question. Anyhow,
Stepton was determined to make him speak. And he set off to Hornton
Street little doubting that he would find means to carry his
determination into effect.

He arrived about half-past five. He did not turn the corner into
Kensington High Street on his homeward way until darkness had fallen,
having passed through some of the most extraordinary moments that had
ever been his.

When he was shown into the curate's sitting-room, his first remark was:

"Sent that very interesting story to 'The Cornhill' yet?"

"I don't think you quite understand, Professor," replied Chichester.
"I did not type it with a view to sending it in anywhere for publication.
You'll have tea with me, I hope? Here it is, all ready."