“And yet you are one of the chief of the investigators in the field of psychical research.”

“Do you think there’s no room for pencil and note-book there?  What about Podmore,—­there’s a loss!—­and a dozen others?  Psychic matters have got to be lifted out of the hands of credulous fetish-worshiping fools, and the sooner the better.”

“It’s easy to call people credulous,” said Chichester, with decided heat.  “By being so readily contemptuous, Professor Stepton, you may often keep back evidence that might be of inestimable value to your cause.  A man in possession of a great truth may keep it to himself for fear of being laughed at or called a liar.”

“Then all I can say is that he’s a coward—­an arrant abject coward.”

Chichester sat in silence.  Again he was looking down.  Now that his eyes were hidden by their drooping lids, and that he was no longer speaking, the sadness of his aspect seemed more profound.  It dignified his rather insignificant features.  It even seemed, in some mysterious way, to infuse power into his slight and unimportant figure.  After sitting thus for perhaps three minutes he raised his head and got up from his chair.

“I must not take up your time any longer,” he said.  “It was very good of you to see me at all.”  He held out his hand, which Stepton took, and added, “I’ll just say one thing.”

“Do!”

“It isn’t always cowardice which causes a man to keep a secret—­a secret which might be of value to the world.”

“I never said it was.”

“No; but still—­you spoke just now of my sermons.  I preached one not very long ago which I have typed myself.  If I send it to you do you think you could find time to read it?”

“Certainly.”

“I will send it, then.  Good night.”

“I’ll come down with you.”

The professor let Chichester out.  The rain was still falling in torrents.  Shrouded in his mackintosh, protected by his umbrella, the curate walked away.  Looking after him, Stepton thought: 

“Very odd!  It isn’t only in the face.  Even the figure, all covered up and umbrella-roofed, seems to have something—­he’ll send me the sermon of the man and his double to-morrow.”

And on the morrow that sermon came by the first post.  Having read it, the professor promptly returned it to Chichester with the following note: 

The White House, Westminster.

Dear Mr. Chichester:_

Very glad to have had the opportunity of reading your interesting discourse.  If I had not known it was yours, and a sermon, I should have said “a posthumous work of Robert Louis Stevenson.”  It does credit to your imagination.  If you care to publish, I should suggest “The Cornhill.”  I know nothing about their terms.

Yours faithfully,

G.R.E.  Stepton.

By return of post, there came an urgent invitation to the professor to visit Chichester’s rooms in Hornton Street, “to continue a discussion which has a special interest for me at this moment.”