“There you see mine and Miriam’s and Mrs. Mawle’s,” he said, stooping to look.  “They harmonize most beautifully, you observe, with your own.”

It was, indeed, a singular and remarkable thing.  The patterns, though all different, yet combined in some subtle fashion impossible of analysis to form a complete and well-proportioned Whole—­a design—­a picture.  The patterns of the clergyman and the housekeeper provided the base and foreground, those of Miriam and the secretary the delicate superstructure.  The girl’s pattern, he noted with a subtle pleasure, was curiously similar to his own, but far more delicate and waving.  Yet, whereas his was floral, hers was stellar in character; that of the housekeeper was spiral, and Mr. Skale’s he could only describe as a miniature whirlwind of very exquisite design rising out of apparently three separate centers of motion.

“If I could paint over them the color each shade of sound represents,” Mr. Skale resumed, “the tint of each timbre, or Klangfarbe, as the Germans call it, you would see better still how we are all grouped together there into a complete and harmonious whole.”

Spinrobin looked from the patterns to his companion’s great face bending there beside him.  Then he looked back again at the patterns.  He could think of nothing quite intelligible to say.  He noticed more clearly every minute that these dainty shapes of sand, stellar, spiral, and floral, stood to one another in certain definite proportions, in a rising and calculated ratio of singular beauty.

“There, before you, lies a true and perfect chord made visible,” the clergyman said in tones thrilling with satisfaction, “—­three notes in harmony with the fundamental sound, myself, and with each other.  My dear fellow, I congratulate you, I congratulate you.”

“Thank you very much, indeed,” murmured Spinrobin.  “I don’t quite understand it all yet, but it’s—­it’s extraordinarily fascinating and wonderful.”

Mr. Skale said nothing, and Spinrobin drifted back to his big armchair.  A deep silence pervaded the room for the space of several minutes.  In the heart of that silence lay the mass of direct and vital questions the secretary burned, yet was afraid, to ask.  For such was the plain truth; he yearned to know, yet feared to hear.  The Discovery and the Experiment of this singular man loomed already somewhat vast and terrible; the adjective that had suggested itself before returned to him—­“not permissible.” ...  Of Mr. Skale himself he had no sort of fear, though a growing and uncommon respect, but of the purpose Mr. Skale had in view he caught himself thinking more and more, yet without obvious reason, with a distinct shrinking almost amounting to dismay.  But for the fact that so sweet and gentle a creature as Miriam was traveling the same path with him, this increased sense of caution would have revealed itself plainly for what it was—­Fear....

“I am deeply interested, Mr. Skale,” he said at length, breaking first the silence, “and sympathetic too, I assure you; only—­you will forgive me for saying it—­I am, as yet, still rather in the dark as to where all this is to lead—­” The clergyman’s eyes, fixed straight upon his own, again made it difficult to finish the sentence as he wished.