'Some part of you,' replied the imperturbable secretary, after listening carefully to his master's vague description of the symptoms, 'is being engaged elsewhere--very actively engaged---' 'Eh?' asked Rogers, puzzled. 'Probably at night, sir, while your brain and body sleep,' Minks elaborated, 'your energetic spirit is out--on the plane of causes---' The other gasped slightly, 'While my body lies unconscious?' 'Your spirit may be busy at all kinds of things. _That_ can never be unconscious,' was the respectful answer. 'They say---' 'Yes, what do they say?' He recognised a fairy theory, and jumped at it. 'That in sleep,' continued the other, encouraged, 'the spirit knows a far more concentrated life--dips down into the deep sea of being--our waking life merely the froth upon the shore.' Rogers stared at him. 'Yes, yes,' he answered slowly, 'that's very pretty, very charming; it's quite delightful. What ideas you have, my dear Minks! What jolly, helpful ideas!' Minks beamed with pleasure. 'Not my own, Mr. Rogers, not my own,' he said, with as much pride as if they _were_ his own, 'but some of the oldest in the world, just coming into fashion again with the turn of the tide, it seems. Our daily life--even the most ordinary--is immensely haunted, girdled about with a wonder of incredible things. There are hints everywhere to-day, though few can read the enormous script complete. Here and there one reads a letter or a word, that's all. Yet the best minds refuse to know the language, not even the ABC of it; they read another language altogether---' 'The best minds!' repeated Rogers. 'What d'you mean by that!' It sounded, as Minks said it, so absurdly like best families. 'The scientific and philosophical minds, sir. They think it's not worth learning, this language. That's the pity of it--ah, the great pity of it!' And he looked both eager and resentful--his expression almost pathetic. He turned half beseechingly to his employer, as though _he_ might alter the sad state of things. 'As with an iceberg, Mr. Rogers,' he added, 'the greater part of everything--of ourselves especially--is invisible; we merely know the detail banked against an important grand Unseen.' The long sentence had been suffered to its close because the audience was busy with thoughts of his own instead of listening carefully. Behind the wild language stirred some hint of meaning that, he felt, held truth. For a moment, it seemed, his daylight searching was explained--almost. 'Well and good, my dear fellow, and very picturesque,' he said presently, gazing with admiration at his secretary's neat blue tie and immaculate linen; 'but thinking, you know, is not possible without matter.' This in a tone of '_Do_ talk a little sense.' 'Even if the spirit does go out, it couldn't think apart from the brain, could it now, eh?' Minks took a deep breath and relieved himself of the following: