“Won’t you read it to us, Mr. Ricardo?  My eyes are tired at night.”

He cleared his throat.

“It is an answer to Bishop Crawford’s recent letter to The Times, which you may have seen.  I have called it ‘Unmasking the Oracle.’”

Robert leant out of the window and watched the sun sink into mist and smoke.  He wished Mr. Ricardo hadn’t come; and that he would go away soon.  In a few minutes the light would begin to die, and the sharp black lines of the roofs and spires, which on the ruins of their dull selves seemed to be built anew into a witchlike fantastic city, would be lost to him for another night.  Robert did not want to hear about God and the origin of man now.  He kicked impatiently.  Christine would sit up later than ever.  And, besides with Mr. Ricardo’s voice rising and falling, growing shriller and more passionate, one could not listen to that low, mysterious hum that was so like a far-off music.

Mr. Ricardo made a sweeping, crushing gesture.  “That, surely, settles the controversy.  He will hardly be able to answer that, I think.”

Christine stirred, and opened her eyes, and smiled a little.

“I could not answer it, at any rate.  It sounds very clever.”  She took the paper from him and held it to the light, and Robert turned, hoping that now he would really go.  “But—­but I didn’t quite understand—­have I lost the place?—­this is by E. T. Richards.”

Then Robert saw an astonishing thing.  Suddenly Mr. Ricardo seemed to shrivel—­to cower back into himself.  His fierce, triumphant energy had gone as at a blasting touch of magic.  He looked ashamed and broken.

“A nom de plume—­a nom de guerre, rather, Miss Forsyth—­you understand—­in my opinion—­the scholastic profession—­the stronghold of the worst bigotry and prejudice—­for myself I should not care—­I have always wanted to come out into the open—­but I have a sister—­poor girl!—­a long, sad illness—­for her sake—­I can’t afford——­”

Christine folded the paper gently as though she were afraid of hurting it.

“Of course.  It would be unwise—­unnecessary.  Why should one sacrifice oneself to fight something that doesn’t exist?”

He clenched his fists.

“One must fight error, Miss Forsyth.”

“At any rate it’s brave of you to try—­to do what you think is right.”  And now it seemed she was trying to find something that would comfort him—­just as she had once given Robert peppermint balls when he had hurt himself.  “If ever you feel inclined, won’t you come again—­and read to us?”

He looked at her with dark, tragic eyes.

“Thank you, thank you.”

Robert went with him to the door, and for a moment he wavered on the steps, blinking, and squeezing his soft hat between his bony hands.

“A great woman—­a kind woman—­you must be worth her while, Stonehouse.”

And then, without so much as a “good night,” he limped down the steps and along the street, flitting in and out of the lamplight like a hunted bat.