“You look tired,” said Malling.

The fact was that Chichester had never recovered the color he had so suddenly lost when they were discussing Mr. Harding.

“It’s no wonder if I do,” rejoined Chichester, in a voice that sounded hopeless.

He drank some coffee, seemed to make a strong effort to recover himself, and, with more energy, said: 

“I asked you here because I wanted to renew a pleasant acquaintanceship, but also—­you won’t think me discourteous, I know—­because—­well, I had a purpose in begging you to come.”

“Won’t you tell me what it is?”

The curate shifted in his armchair, clasped and unclasped his hands.  A mental struggle was evidently going on within him.  Indeed, during the whole evening Malling had received from him a strong impression of combat, of confusion.

“I wanted to continue the discussion we began at Mr. Harding’s the other day.  You remember, I asked you not to tell him you were coming?”

“Yes.”

“I think it’s best to keep certain matters private.  People so easily misunderstand one.  And the rector has rather a jealous nature.”

Malling looked at his companion without speaking.  At this moment he was so strongly interested that he simply forgot to speak.  Never, even at a successful sitting when, the possibility of trickery having been eliminated, a hitherto hidden truth seemed about to lift a torch in the darkness and to illumine an unknown world, had he been more absorbed by the matter in hand.  Chichester did not seem to be struck by his silence, and continued: 

“And then not every one is fitted to comprehend properly certain matters, to see things in their true light.  Now the other day you said a thing that greatly impressed me, that I have never been able to get out of my mind since.  You said, ‘Harm can never come from truth.’  I have been thinking about those words of yours, night and day, night and day.  Tell me—­did you mean them?”

The question came from Chichester’s lips with such force that Malling was almost startled.

“Certainly I meant them,” he answered.

“And if truth slays?”

“And is death the worst thing that can happen to a man, or to an idea—­some wretched fallacy, perhaps, that has governed the minds of men, some gross superstition, some lie that darkens counsel?”

“You think if a man lives by a lie he is better dead?”

“Don’t you think so?”

“But don’t we all need a crutch to help us along on the path of life?”

“What!  You, a clergyman, think that it is good to bolster up truth with lies?” said Malling, with genuine scorn.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it, I think.”

“Perhaps if you had worked among men and women as much as I have you would know how much they need.  If you went abroad, say to Italy, and saw how the poor, ignorant people live happily oftentimes by their blind belief in the efficacy of the saints, would you wish to tear it from them?”