There was a considerable silence. He glanced up in an ashamed sort of way, at the other, and saw him standing quite upright and still, again with his back to the fire, looking out across the room. From outside came the hum of the thoroughfare--the rolling of wheels, the jingle of bells, the cries of human beings. He waited in a kind of shame for Dick's next words. He had not put all these feelings into coherent form before, even to himself, and they sounded now even more fantastic than he had thought them. He waited, then, for the verdict of this quiet man, whom up to now he had deemed something of a fool, who cared about nothing but billiards and what was called Art. (Jack loathed Art.) Then the verdict came in a surprising form. But he understood it perfectly. "Well, what about bed?" said Dick quietly. (IV) It was on the morning of the twenty-fourth that Mr. Parham-Carter was summoned by the neat maid-servant of the clergy-house to see two gentlemen. She presented two cards on a plated salver, inscribed with the names of Richard Guiseley and John B. Kirkby. He got up very quickly, and went downstairs two at a time. A minute later he brought them both upstairs and shut the door. "Sit down," he said. "I'm most awfully glad you've come. I ... I've been fearfully upset by all this, and I haven't known what to do." "Now where is he?" demanded Jack Kirkby. The clergyman made a deprecatory face. "I've absolutely promised not to tell," he said. "And you know--" "But that's ridiculous. We've come on purpose to fetch him away. It simply mustn't go on. That's why I didn't write. I sent Frank's letter on to Mr. Guiseley here (he's a cousin of Frank's, by the way), and he asked me to come up to town. I got to town last night, and we've come down here at once this morning." Mr. Parham-Carter glanced at the neat melancholy-faced, bearded man who sat opposite. "But you know I promised," he said. "Yes," burst in Jack; "but one doesn't keep promises one makes to madmen. And--" "But he's not mad in the least. He's--" "Well?" "I was going to say that it seems to me that he's more sane than anyone else," said the young man dismally. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but--" Dick Guiseley nodded with such emphasis that he stopped. "I know what you mean," said Dick in his gentle drawl. "And I quite understand." "But it's all sickening rot," burst in Jack. "He must be mad. You don't know Frank as I do--neither of you. And now there's this last business--his father's marriage, I mean; and--" He broke off and looked across at Dick. "Go on," said Dick; "don't mind me." "Well, we don't know whether he's heard of it or not; but he must hear sooner or later, and then--" "But he has heard of it," interrupted the clergyman. "I showed him the paragraph myself." "He's heard of it! And he knows all about it!" "Certainly. And I understood from him that he knew the girl: the Rector's daughter, isn't it?"