supposed that he had outgrown his early errors, and found, in the liberal theology of New England, a more genuine inspiration.  In meeting him in his pastoral relation, I had only remarked that he was one of those men who find it very difficult to resist the social influences into which they may be thrown.  This was probably the case even where that influence tended to degrade him from the plane he would have occupied, if left to himself.  His spiritual life seemed to lack that vigor and buoyancy so infinitely important to contemplative men.  He appeared to be ever yearning for something which should add robustness to his convictions.  After a pause of some moments, Clifton again addressed me.

“Recollections of moments, months of excitement, of intense power, have returned!  They may not fade again unspoken.  You shall know my long-cherished secret.  Younger in years, you may scarcely advise; but, at least, you may give sympathy that shall confirm my decision.  I have engaged rooms at the neighboring hotel.  Come and pass the evening—­nay, the night—­with me; for much must be read and thought and spoken before the black veil of personality can be lifted between us.”

It has already been observed that my family were at the seaside.  This circumstance left me sole disposer of my time and localities.  How, then, resist the inclination to see out the adventure upon which I had stumbled?  Let me credit myself also with a worthier motive:  I saw that my companion was in no state to be left to himself,—­and, really, there was no mutual friend to whom I could consign him.  Accordingly I offered my arm in a manner to imply acquiescence in his proposal.

We soon reached the hotel, and ascended to a room in the remote corner of a spacious wing.  Clifton at once turned the key, placed his package upon the table, and proceeded to employ a stray bit of carpet in stopping a ventilator which communicated with the entry.  Having satisfied himself that this passage was rendered impervious to sound, he drew two chairs up to the table, motioned me into one, and planted himself in the other with the air of a man, in popular phrase, about to make a night of it.

“Did you ever hear of Herbert Vannelle?” he asked, abruptly.

It can hardly be necessary to say that a substitute is here placed for the name really mentioned.

I replied in the negative, and asked where the gentleman lived.

“He lives nowhere on earth; he is dead,—­just dead.”

“A friend of yours?”

“A master once; now a presence eluding, haunting, torturing.  He left me this manuscript; it is a ‘Philosophy of the Absolute.’” (Here Clifton drew from a curiously contrived case of parchment a cluster of pages.) “It has now twenty-two hours to appear in the present century.  You shall devote the night to reading it, and tell me that I have acted well.”