“Well spoken,” said Mr. May.

“But that is not all, sir,” continued Noel Prodgers.  “It is impossible that we can share such certainty as you claim.  Probability lies entirely against it.  This has happened twice, remember, and each time a valuable and precious life disappears, for causes beyond our knowledge.  That, however, is no reason for assuming the causes are beyond all human knowledge.  We do not all possess learning in physics.  I would venture most earnestly to beg you to desist, at least until much more has been done and this famous professional man has made such researches as his genius suggests.  That is only reasonable, and reason, after all, is a mighty gift of God—­a gift, no doubt, often abused by finite beings, who actually use it to defy the Giver—­yet none the less, in its proper place, the handmaid of faith and the light of true progress.”

But Septimus May argued against him.  “To shelter behind reason at such a moment is to blunt the sword of the spirit,” he replied, “and human reason is never the handmaid of faith, as you wrongly suggest, but her obdurate, unsleeping foe.  That which metaphysicians call intuition, and which I call the voice of God, tells me in clear tones that my boy died by no human agency whatever and by no natural accident.  He was wrapt from this life to the next in the twinkling of an eye by forces, or a force, concerning which we know nothing save through the Word of God.  I will go farther.  I will venture to declare that this death-dealing ghost, or discarnate but conscious being, may not be, as you say, a dark angel—­perhaps not wholly evil—­perhaps not evil at all.  One thing none can question—­ it did the will of its Creator, as we all must, and we are not, therefore, justified in asserting that a malignant force was exerted.  To say so is to speak in terms of our own bitter loss and our own aching hearts.  But we are justified in believing that a fearful, unknown power was liberated during the night that Tom died, and I desire to approach that power upon my knees and with my life in my Maker’s hands.”

The conviction of this righteous but superstitious soul was uttered with passionate zeal.  He puzzled to understand how fellow Christians could argue against him, and much resented the fact that Sir Walter withstood his claim and declined to permit the experiment he desired to make.  A formalist and precisian, he held any sort of doubt to be backsliding before the message in his own heart.  They argued unavailingly with him, and Henry Lennox suggested a compromise.

“Why is it vital, after all, that only one should undertake this ordeal?” he asked.  “I begged you to let me try—­for revenge.”

“Do not use that word,” said Mr. Prodgers.

“Well, at any rate, I feel just as great a call to be there as Tom’s father can feel—­just as pressing a demand and desire.  There may have been foul play.  At any rate, the thing was done by an active agency, and Tom was taken in some way at a disadvantage.  There was no fair fight, I’ll swear.  He was evidently kneeling, calmly enough looking out of the window, when he died, and the blow must have been a coward’s blow, struck from behind, whoever struck it.”