He begged her to be silent, and declared that her remarks savored of irreverence.  Startled and bewildered by such a criticism, the woman was indeed silent for some time, while her father-in-law flowed on and uttered his conviction.  Yet not all his intensity and asseverations could justify such extravagant assertion.  At another time they might even have amused Mary; but in sight of the fact that her father was yielding, and that the end of the argument would mean the clergyman in the Grey Room, she could win nothing but frantic anxiety from the situation.  Sir Walter was broken; he had lost his hold on reality, and she realized that.  His unsettled intelligence had gone over to the opposition, and there was none, as it seemed, to argue on her side.

Septimus May had acted like a dangerous drug on Sir Walter; he appeared to be intoxicated in some degree.  But only in mind, not in manner.  He argued for his new attitude, and he was not as excited as the priest, but maintained his usual level tones.

“I agreed with Mannering and Henry yesterday, as you know, Mary,” he said, “and at my desire Mr. May desisted from his wish.  We see how mistaken I was, how right he must have been.  I have thought it out this afternoon, calmly and logically.  These unfortunate young men have died without a reason, for be sure no explanation of Peter Hardcastle’s death will be forthcoming though the whole College of Surgeons examines his corpse.  Then we must admit that life has been snatched out of these bodies by some force of which we have no conception.  Were it natural, science would have discovered a reason for death; but it could not, because their lives flowed away as water out of a bottle, leaving the bottle unchanged in every particular.  But life does not desert its physical habitation on these terms.  It cannot quit a healthy, human body neither ruined nor rent.  You must be honest with yourself, my child, as well as with your father-in-law and me.  A physical cause being absolutely ruled out, what remains?  To-night I emphatically support Mr. May, and my conscience, long in terrible concern, is now at rest again.  And because it is at rest, I know that I have done well.  I believe that what dear Tom’s father desires to do—­namely, to spend this night in the Grey Room—­is now within his province and entirely proper to his profession, and I share his perfect faith and confidence.”

“It is you who lack faith, Mary,” continued Septimus May.  “You lack faith, otherwise you would appreciate the unquestionable truth of what your father tells you.  Listen,” he continued, “and understand something of what this means from a larger outlook than our own selfish and immediate interests.  Much may come of my action for the Faith at large.  I may find an answer to those grave questions concerning the life beyond and the whole problem of spiritualism now convulsing the Church and casting us into opposing sections.  It is