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.
3
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 mention that he was leaving Westgate at a certain time. When his train ran into Victoria Station, at five o'clock in the evening, he was surprised to see the cloaked figure of his friend standing upon the grey platform behind a line of porters.
"What, Murchison!" he said. "You here! Have you seceded from your order that you are taking this holiday?"
They shook hands.
"No," said the Father. "It happened that I had to be in this neighbourhood to-day, visiting a sick person. So I thought I would meet you."
"And see if I were still a sick person, eh?"
The Professor glanced at him kindly, but with a dry little laugh.
"Are you?" replied the Father gently, looking at him with interest. "No, I think not. You appear very well."
The sea air had, in fact, put some brownish red into Guildea's always thin cheeks. His keen eyes were shining with life and energy, and he walked forward in his loose grey suit and fluttering overcoat with a vigour that was noticeable, carrying easily in his left hand his well-filled Gladstone bag.
The Father felt completely reassured.
"I never saw you look better," he said.
"I never was better. Have you an hour to spare?"
"Two."
"Good. I'll send my bag up by cab, and we'll walk across the Park to my house and have a cup of tea there. What d'you say?"
"I shall enjoy it."
They walked out of the station yard, past the flower girls and newspaper sellers towards Grosvenor Place.
"And you have had a pleasant time?" the Father said.
"Pleasant enough, and lonely. I left my companion behind me in the passage at number 100, you know."
"And you'll not find him there now, I feel sure."
"H'm!" ejaculated Guildea. "What a precious weakling you think me, Murchison.
As he spoke he strode forward more quickly, as if moved to emphasise his sensation of bodily vigour.
"A weakling - no. But anyone who uses his brain as persistently as you do yours must require an occasional holiday."
"And I required one very badly, eh?"
"You required one, I believe."
"Well, I've had it. And now we'll see."
The evening was closing in rapidly. They crossed the road at Hyde Park Corner, and entered the Park, in which were a number of people going home from work; men in corduroy trousers, caked with dried mud, and carrying tin cans slung over their shoulders, and flat panniers, in which lay their tools. Some of the younger ones talked loudly or whistled shrilly as they walked.
"Until the evening," murmured Father Murchison to himself.
"What?" asked Guildea.
"I was only quoting the last words of the text, which seems written upon life, especially upon the life of pleasure: 'Man goeth forth to his work, and to his labour.' "
"Ah, those fellows are not half bad fellows to have in an audience. There were a lot of them at the lecture I gave when I first met you, I remember. One of them tried to heckle me. He had a red beard. Chaps with red beards are always hecklers. I laid him low on that occasion. Well, Murchison, and now we're going to see."
"What?"
"Whether my companion has departed."
"Tell me - do you feel any expectation of - well - of again thinking something is there?"
"How carefully you choose language. No, I merely wonder."
"You have no apprehension?"
"Not a scrap. But I confess to feeling curious."
"Then the sea air hasn't taught you to recognise that the whole thing came from overstrain."
"No," said Guildea, very drily.
He walked on in silence for a minute. Then he added:
"You thought it would?"
"I certainly thought it might."
"Make me realise that I had a sickly, morbid, rotten imagination - eh? Come now, Murchison, why not say frankly that you packed me off to Westgate to get rid of what you considered an acute form of hysteria?"
The Father was quite unmoved by this attack.
"Come now, Guildea," he retorted, "what did you expect me to think? I saw no indication of hysteria in you. I never have. One would suppose you the last man likely to have such a malady. But which is more natural - for me to believe in your hysteria or in the truth of such a story as you told me?"
"You have me there. No, I mustn't complain. Well, there's no hysteria about me now, at any rate."
"And no stranger in your house, I hope."
Father Murchison spoke the last words with earnest gravity, dropping the half-bantering tone - which they had both assumed.
"You take the matter very seriously, I believe," said Guildea, also speaking more gravely.
"How else can I take it? You wouldn't have me laugh at it when you tell it me seriously?"
"No. If we find my visitor still in the house, I may even call upon you to exorcise it. But first I must do one thing."
"And that is?"
"Prove to you, as well as to myself, that it is still there."
"That might be difficult," said the Father, considerably surprised by Guildea's matter-of-fact tone.
"I don't know. If it has remained in my house I think I can find a means. And I shall not be at all surprised if it is still there - despite the Westgate air."
In saying the last words the Professor relapsed into his former tone of dry chaff. The Father could not quite make up his mind whether Guildea was feeling unusually grave or unusually gay. As the two men drew near to Hyde Park Place their conversation died away and they walked forward silently in the gathering darkness.
"Here we are!" said Guildea at last.
He thrust his key into the door, opened it and let Father Murchison into the passage, following him closely, and banging the door.
"Here we are!" he repeated in a louder voice.
The electric light was turned on in anticipation of his arrival. He stood still and looked round.
"We'll have some tea at once," he said. "Ah, Pitting!"
The pale butler, who had heard the door bang, moved gently forward from the top of the stairs that led to the kitchen, greeted his master respectfully, took his coat and Father Murchison's cloak, and hung them on two pegs against the wall.
"All's right, Pitting? All's as usual?" said Guildea.
"Quite so, sir."
"Bring me up some tea to the library."
"Yes, sir."
Pitting retreated. Guildea waited till he had disappeared, then opened the dining-room door, put his head into the room and kept it there for a moment, standing perfectly still. Presently he drew back into the passage, shut the door, and said:
"Let's go upstairs."
Father Murchison looked at him enquiringly, but made no remark. They ascended the stairs and came into the library. Guildea glanced rather sharply round. A fire was burning on the hearth. The blue curtains were drawn. The bright gleam of the strong electric light fell on the long rows of books, on the writing table - very orderly in consequent of Guildea's holiday - and on the uncovered cage of the parrot. Guildea went up to the cage. Napoleon was sitting humped up on his perch with his feathers ruffled. His long toes, which looked as if they were covered with crocodile skin, clung to the bar. His round and blinking eyes were filmy, like old eyes. Guildea stared at the bird very hard, and then clucked with his tongue against his teeth. Napoleon shook himself, lifted one foot, extended his toes, sidled along the perch to the bars nearest to the Professor and thrust his head against them. Guildea scratched it with his forefinger two or three times, still gazing attentively at the parrot; then he returned to the fire just as Pitting entered with the tea-tray.
Father Murchison was already sitting in an armchair on one side of the fire. Guildea took another chair and began to pour out tea, as Pitting left the room, closing the door gently behind him. The Father sipped his tea, found it hot and set the cup down on a little table at his side.
"You're fond of that parrot, aren't you?" he asked his friend.
"Not particularly. It's interesting to study sometimes. The parrot mind and nature are peculiar."
"How long have you had him?"
"About four years. I nearly got rid of him just before I made your acquaintance. I'm very glad now I kept him."
"Are you? Why is that?"
"I shall probably tell you in a day or two."
The Father took his cup again. He did not press Guildea for an immediate explanation, but when they had both finished their tea he said:
"Well, has the sea-air had the desired effect?"
"No," said Guildea.
The Father brushed some crumbs from the front of his cassock and sat up higher in his chair.
"Your visitor is still here?" he asked, and his blue eyes became almost ungentle and piercing as he gazed at his friend.
"Yes," answered Guildea, calmly.
"How do you know it, when did you know it - when you looked into the dining-room just now?"
"No. Not until I came into this room. It welcomed me here."
"Welcomed you! In what way?"
"Simply by being here, by making me feel that it is here, as I might feel that a man was if I came into the room when it was dark."
He spoke quietly, with perfect composure in his usual dry manner.
"Very well," the Father said, "I shall not try to contend against your sensation, or to explain it away. Naturally, I am in amazement."
"So am I. Never has anything in my life surprised me so much. Murchison, of course I cannot expect you to believe more than that I honestly suppose - imagine, if you like - that there is some intruder here, of which kind I am totally unaware. I cannot expect you to believe that there really is anything. If you were in my place, I in yours, I should certainly consider you the victim of some nervous delusion. I could not do otherwise. But - wait. Don't condemn me for a hysteria patient, or as a madman, for two or three days. I feel convinced that - unless I am indeed unwell, a mental invalid, which I don't think is possible - I shall be able very shortly to give you some proof that there is a newcomer in my house."
"You don't tell me what kind of proof?"
"Not yet. Things must go a little farther first. But, perhaps even to-morrow I may be able to explain myself more fully. In the meanwhile, I'll say this, that if, eventually, I can't bring any kind of proof that I'm not dreaming, I'll let you take me to any doctor you like, and I'll resolutely try to adopt your present view - that I'm suffering from an absurd delusion. That is your view, of course?"
Father Murchison was silent for a moment. Then he said, rather doubtfully:
"It ought to be."
"But isn't it?" asked Guildea, surprised.
"Well, you know, your manner is enormously convincing. Still, of course, I doubt. How can I do otherwise? The whole thing must be fancy."
The Father spoke as if he were trying to recoil from a mental position he was being forced to take up.
"It must be fancy," he repeated.
"I'll convince you by more than my manner, or I'll not try to convince you at all," said Guildea.
When they parted that evening, he said:
"I'll write to you in a day or two probably. I think the proof I am going to give you has been accumulating during my absence. But I shall soon know."
Father Murchison was extremely puzzled as he sat on the top of the omnibus going homeward.
4
In two days' time he received a note from Guildea asking him to call, if possible, the same evening. This he was unable to do as he had an engagement to fulfil at some East End gathering. The following day was Sunday. He wrote saying he would come on the Monday, and got a wire shortly afterwards: "Yes, Monday come to dinner seven-thirty Guildea." At half-past seven he stood on the doorstep of number 100.