dered a cab to be called, seized the cage and drove with it to a
bird shop in Shaftesbury Avenue. There I sold the parrot for a trifle. I
think, Murchison, that I must have been nearly mad then, for, as I came
out of the wretched shop, and stood for an instant on the pavement among
the cages of rabbits, guinea-pigs, and puppy dogs, I laughed aloud. I
felt as if a load was lifted from my shoulders, as if in selling that
voice I had sold the cursed thing that torments me. But when I got back
to the house it was here. It's here now. I suppose it will always be
here."

He shuffled his feet on the rug in front of the fire.

"What on earth am I to do?" he said. "I'm ashamed of myself, Murchison,
but--but I suppose there are things in the world that certain men simply
can't endure. Well, I can't endure this, and there's an end of the
matter."

He ceased. The Father was silent. In presence of this extraordinary
distress he did not know what to say. He recognised the uselessness of
attempting to comfort Guildea, and he sat with his eyes turned, almost
moodily, to the ground. And while he sat there he tried to give himself
to the influences within the room, to feel all that was within it. He
even, half-unconsciously, tried to force his imagination to play tricks
with him. But he remained totally unaware of any third person with them.
At length he said,

"Guildea, I cannot pretend to doubt the reality of your misery here. You
must go away, and at once. When is your Paris lecture?"

"Next week. In nine days from now."

"Go to Paris to-morrow then, you say you have never had any
consciousness that this--this thing pursued you beyond your own front
door!"

"Never--hitherto."

"Go to-morrow morning. Stay away till after your lecture. And then let
us see if the affair is at an end. Hope, my dear friend, hope."

He had stood up. Now he clasped the Professor's hand.

"See all your friends in Paris. Seek distractions. I would ask you also
to seek--other help."

He said the last words with a gentle, earnest gravity and simplicity
that touched Guildea, who returned his handclasp almost warmly.

"I'll go," he said. "I'll catch the ten o'clock train, and to-night I'll
sleep at an hotel, at the Grosvenor--that's close to the station. It
will be more convenient for the train."

As Father Murchison went home that night he kept thinking of that
sentence: "It will be more convenient for the train." The weakness in
Guildea that had