And he closed the library door behind them.

Chapter II

I

For some minutes they sat in front of the fire and sipped their coffee in silence.  The secretary felt that the sliding platform on which he was traveling into this extraordinary adventure had been going a little too fast for him.  Events had crowded past before he had time to look squarely at them.  He had lost his bearings rather, routed by Miriam’s beauty and by the amazing way she talked to him.  Had she lived always inside his thoughts she could not have chosen words better calculated to convince him that they were utterly in sympathy one with the other.  Mr. Skale, moreover, approved heartily.  The one thing Spinrobin saw clearly through it all was that himself and Miriam—­their voices, rather—­were necessary for the success of the clergyman’s mysterious experiments.  Only, while Miriam, little witch, knew all about it, he, candidate on trial, knew as yet—­nothing.

And now, as they sat opposite one another in the privacy of the library, Spinrobin, full of confidence and for once proud of his name and personality, looked forward to being taken more into the heart of the affair.  Things advanced, however, more slowly than he desired.  Mr. Skale’s scheme was too big to be hurried.

The clergyman did not smoke, but his companion, with the other’s ready permission, puffed gently at a small cigarette.  Short, rapid puffs he took, as though the smoke was afraid to enter beyond the front teeth, and with one finger he incessantly knocked off the ashes into his saucer, even when none were there to fall.  On the table behind them gurgled the shaded lamp, lighting their faces from the eyes downwards.

“Now,” said Mr. Skale, evidently not aware that he thundered, “we can talk quietly and undisturbed.”  He caught his beard in a capacious hand, in such a way that the square outline of his chin showed through the hair.  His voice boomed musically, filling the room.  Spinrobin listened acutely, afraid even to cross his legs.  A genuine pronouncement, he felt, was coming.

“A good many years ago, Mr. Spinrobin,” he said simply, “when I was a curate of a country parish in Norfolk, I made a discovery—­of a revolutionary description—­a discovery in the world of real things, that is, of spiritual things.”

He gazed fixedly over the clutched beard at his companion, apparently searching for brief, intelligible phrases.  “But a discovery, the development of which I was obliged to put on one side until I inherited with this property the means and leisure which enabled me to continue my terrific—­I say purposely terrific—­researches.  For some years now I have been quietly at work here absorbed in my immense pursuit.”  And again he stopped.  “I have reached a point, Mr. Spinrobin—­”

“Yes,” interjected the secretary, as though the mention of his name touched a button and produced a sound.  “A point—?”