“No doubt; but scientifically it was only a form of epilepsy, and St Vitus has had his votaries in all countries, at all times. It was not until the sixteenth century that the faculty ventured to question the demon theories of the priests. Look up Paracelsus, my friend. His diagnosis was correct, but his remedies were ridiculous.” “I suppose the tarantism of Italy was only a form of the same nervous disorder?” queried the other. “Precisely; the spider’s bite was a delusion--though, no doubt, the Apulian Tarantula was a _bona fide_ insect. Hysteria can always invent a spider, or a mouse. As recently as 1787, two or three hundred girls in a Lancashire cotton mill were seized with violent convulsions, because one girl put a mouse into the bosom of another girl. They all declared that they had been treated in the same way. The insane delusions of the Convulsionaires in France lasted till near the end of the eighteenth century, and of course we have had our own Jumpers, Shakers, and Pentecostal Dancers here in England.” “And you think we haven’t seen the last of them?” “Nor yet the worst,” said the specialist, rising. “Shall we finish our cigars outside?” As the two men ended their odd dialogue and left the room, a waiter brought Herrick a pencilled note. “_Father will see you.--Aldwyth._” CHAPTER VIII SIR JOHN BREAKS DOWN John Westwood was the son of a solicitor, and paternal influence gave him his first start at the Bar. A patient, strenuous, and able man, he missed no chance. The crest of a political wave carried him into Parliament, and, unlike most lawyers, he became a House of Commons success. Successful in love, as in forensic war and party politics, he won a wife who was wooed at the same time by a lover mad in his worship and passion, wholly different in all respects from the cold and more calculating rival, whose methods and success the rejected lover never forgot nor forgave.