of a child
and shut his eyes tight.

"Our Father," he began, "Which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name!"

The place was as still as a church. He recited his prayer aloud, in a
quiet, careful voice that echoed faintly among the book-shelves.

He bad got as far as "Thine is the kingdom, the power"--no farther--
when Mr. Newman stirred, and he gabbled the words to an end hastily
before he opened his eyes. Mr. Newman came back to consciousness
with a rush; his body inflated with life, his still face woke, and
his vacant eyes, meeting Carrick's and recognising him, suddenly lit
with sense--and terror.

"I say!" exclaimed Carrick; "will you have some water?"

His hand groped for the glass on the mantelshelf, but he continued to
look at Mr. Newman, and presently he forgot the glass. Terror was the
word, the terror of a man who finds--unawaited, ambushed in his
being--depths and capacities unguessed and appalling. A blank,
horror-ridden face fronted his own, till Mr. Newman put his hands
before his face and shuddered. "What is it?" cried Carrick. "Old
chap, what's up?"

"My God!"

It was not an expletive, but a prayer, a supplication. Mr. Newman
dashed the hands from his face and sprang up. Carrick caught him by
the arm.

"I say," he cried. "It's rot. It's a fake--it must be! Whatever
happened--it's not a sure thing. Pull yourself together, Newman. I--I
may be wrong; perhaps it's all an induced--you know, an illusion. I
say, look here----"

"No!"

Gently, but with decision, Mr. Newman put his friendly hand away.
"It's not an illusion," he said.

He walked away. Carrick stood staring after him, a battlefield of
compunctions and a growing curiosity. Mr. Newman was wrestling with
his trouble in the shadows; minutes passed before he came again into
the lamplight. His face was blenched, but something like a stricken
purpose dwelt on it.

"I'll tell you," he said. Then, wildly, "Oh, man! why did you let me?
This trick of yours--it's the knowledge of good and evil; it's the
forbidden fruit. Why did you let me?"

Carrick stammered futilely; there was no answer possible to give.

"I am a Christian," went on Mr. Newman, as though he appealed for
justification. "By my lights I serve God. I try not to judge others.
I've not judged you, have I, Carrick? You--you don't go to church,
but I make a friend of you, don't I?"

"Yes," said Carrick.

"Then--why--" cried Mr. Newman--"why, of all people, should I--oh,
Carrick