“Discussion!” thought Stepton, sitting down to accept, “What my man wants is for me to goad him into revelation; and I’ll do it.”

The professor knew enough of psychology to be aware that in the very depths of the human heart there is a desire which may perhaps be called socialistic—­the desire to share truth with one’s fellow-men.  Chichester was scourged by this desire.  But whether what he wished to share was truth, or only what he believed to be truth, was the question.  Anyhow, Stepton was determined to make him speak.  And he set off to Hornton Street little doubting that he would find means to carry his determination into effect.

He arrived about half-past five.  He did not turn the corner into Kensington High Street on his homeward way until darkness had fallen, having passed through some of the most extraordinary moments that had ever been his.

When he was shown into the curate’s sitting-room, his first remark was: 

“Sent that very interesting story to ‘The Cornhill’ yet?”

“I don’t think you quite understand, Professor,” replied Chichester.  “I did not type it with a view to sending it in anywhere for publication.  You’ll have tea with me, I hope?  Here it is, all ready.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, Ellen!”

Chichester went to the door, and Stepton heard the words, “Nobody, you understand,” following on a subdued murmuring.

“And Mr. Harding, sir?” said the maid’s voice outside.

“Mr. Harding won’t come to-day.  That will do, Ellen.”

The professor heard steps descending.  His host shut the door and returned.

“You typed it for your own use?” said Stepton.

“That sermon?  Yes.  I wished to keep it by me as a record.”

He sat down, and poured out the tea.

“A record of an imagined experience.  Exactly.  Then why not publish?”

“It is not fiction.”

“Well, it isn’t fact.”

The professor drank his tea, looking at his host narrowly over the cup.

“Do you say such an experience as that described in my sermon is impossible?”

“Do you say it is possible?”

“If I were to say so would you believe me?”

“Certainly not, unless I could make an investigation and personally satisfy myself that what you said was true.  You wouldn’t expect anything else, I’m sure.”

“You can believe nothing on the mere word of another?”

“Very little.  I am an investigator.  I look for proof.”

“With your pencil in one hand, your note-book in the other.”

In Chichester’s last remark there was a note of sarcasm which thoroughly roused Stepton, for it sounded like the sarcasm of knowledge addressed to ignorance.  Stepton had a temper.  This touch of superiority, not vulgar, but very definite, fell on it like a lash.

“Now I’ll go for the reverend gentleman of St. Joseph’s!” he thought.