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 what
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 as 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