ere was no
language for narration, and yet, by some golden miracle of speech,
investing known words with unknown significances, he conveyed to Martin's
consciousness messages that were incommunicable to ordinary souls.

Martin forgot his first impression of dislike. Here was the best the
books had to offer coming true. Here was an intelligence, a living man
for him to look up to. "I am down in the dirt at your feet," Martin
repeated to himself again and again.

"You've studied biology," he said aloud, in significant allusion.

To his surprise Brissenden shook his head.

"But you are stating truths that are substantiated only by biology,"
Martin insisted, and was rewarded by a blank stare. "Your conclusions
are in line with the books which you must have read."

"I am glad to hear it," was the answer. "That my smattering of knowledge
should enable me to short-cut my way to truth is most reassuring. As for
myself, I never bother to find out if I am right or not. It is all
valueless anyway. Man can never know the ultimate verities."

"You are a disciple of Spencer!" Martin cried triumphantly.

"I haven't read him since adolescence, and all I read then was his
'Education.'"

"I wish I could gather knowledge as carelessly," Martin broke out half an
hour later. He had been closely analyzing Brissenden's mental equipment.
"You are a sheer dogmatist, and that's what makes it so marvellous. You
state dogmatically the latest facts which science has been able to
establish only by a posteriori reasoning. You jump at correct
conclusions. You certainly short-cut with a vengeance. You feel your
way with the speed of light, by some hyperrational process, to truth."

"Yes, that was what used to bother Father Joseph, and Brother Dutton,"
Brissenden replied. "Oh, no," he added; "I am not anything. It was a
lucky trick of fate that sent me to a Catholic college for my education.
Where did you pick up what you know?"

And while Martin told him, he was busy studying Brissenden, ranging from
a long, lean, aristocratic face and drooping shoulders to the overcoat on
a neighboring chair, its pockets sagged and bulged by the freightage of
many books. Brissenden's face and long, slender hands were browned by
the sun--excessively browned, Martin thought. This sunburn bothered
Martin. It was patent that Brissenden was no outdoor man. Then how had
he been ravaged by the sun? Something morbid and significant attached to
t