raordinary. The bird had
succeeded in producing an extraordinary illusion of an invisible
presence in the room. But that there really was such a presence the
Father insisted on denying to himself. The devoutly religious, those who
believe implicitly in the miracles recorded in the Bible, and who
regulate their lives by the messages they suppose themselves to receive
directly from the Great Ruler of a hidden World, are seldom inclined to
accept any notion of supernatural intrusion into the affairs of daily
life. They put it from them with anxious determination. They regard it
fixedly as hocus-pocus, childish if not wicked.

Father Murchison inclined to the normal view of the devoted churchman.
He was determined to incline to it. He could not--so he now told
himself--accept the idea that his friend was being supernaturally
punished for his lack of humanity, his deficiency in affection, by being
obliged to endure the love of some horrible thing, which could not be
seen, heard, or handled. Nevertheless, retribution did certainly seem to
wait upon Guildea's condition. That which he had unnaturally dreaded and
shrunk from in his thought he seemed to be now forced unnaturally to
suffer. The Father prayed for his friend that night before the little,
humble altar in the barely-furnished, cell-like chamber where he slept.

On the following evening, when he called in Hyde Park Place, the door
was opened by the housemaid, and Father Murchison mounted the stairs,
wondering what had become of Pitting. He was met at the library door by
Guildea and was painfully struck by the alteration in his appearance.
His face was ashen in hue, and there were lines beneath his eyes. The
eyes themselves looked excited and horribly forlorn. His hair and dress
were disordered and his lips twitched continually, as if he were shaken
by some acute nervous apprehension.

"What has become of Pitting?" asked the Father, grasping Guildea's hot
and feverish hand.

"He has left my service."

"Left your service!" exclaimed the Father in utter amazement.

"Yes, this afternoon."

"May one ask why?"

"I'm going to tell you. It's all part and parcel of this--this most
odious business. You remember once discussing the relations men ought to
have with their servants?"

"Ah!" cried the Father, with a flash of inspiration. "The crisis has
occurred?"

"Exactly," said the Professor, with a bitter smile. "The crisis has
occurred. I called upon Pitting to be a