you are aware of the presence of something at this moment?"

"At this moment--yes."

"Do you mean in this room, with us, now?"

"I should say so--at any rate, quite near us."

Again he glanced quickly, almost suspiciously, towards the cage of the
parrot. The bird was sitting still on its perch now. Its head was bent
down and cocked sideways, and it appeared to be listening attentively to
something.

"That bird will have the intonations of my voice more correctly than
ever by to-morrow morning," said the Father, watching Guildea closely
with his mild blue eyes. "And it has always imitated me very cleverly."

The Professor started slightly.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, no doubt. Well, what do you make of this affair?"

"Nothing at all. It is absolutely inexplicable. I can speak quite
frankly to you, I feel sure."

"Of course. That's why I have told you the whole thing."

"I think you must be over-worked, over-strained, without knowing it."

"And that the doctor was mistaken when he said I was all right?"

"Yes."

Guildea knocked his pipe out against the chimney piece.

"It may be so," he said, "I will not be so unreasonable as to deny the
possibility, although I feel as well as I ever did in my life. What do
you advise then?"

"A week of complete rest away from London, in good air."

"The usual prescription. I'll take it. I'll go to-morrow to Westgate and
leave Napoleon to keep house in my absence."

For some reason, which he could not explain to himself, the pleasure
which Father Murchison felt in hearing the first part of his friend's
final remark was lessened, was almost destroyed, by the last sentence.

He walked towards the City that night, deep in thought, remembering and
carefully considering the first interview he had with Guildea in the
latter's house a year and a half before.

On the following morning Guildea left London.

III.

Father Murchison was so busy a man that he had little time for brooding
over the affairs of others. During Guildea's week at the sea, however,
the Father thought about him a great deal, with much wonder and some
dismay. The dismay was soon banished, for the mild-eyed priest was quick
to discern weakness in himself, quicker still to drive it forth as a
most undesirable inmate of the soul. But the wonder remained. It was
destined to a crescendo. Guildea had left London on a Thursday. On a
Thursday he returned, having previously sent a note to Father Murchison
to menti