"Don't joke, doctor," he said impatiently. "For once, I'm past it, past its doing me any good, I mean. A baby, frightened at the dark and howling for its nurse, isn't going to be diverted with a phosphorescent jumping jack. Now you see here. It isn't only the case of Opdyke, though God knows that is a flagrant instance of exactly what I mean. All week long, I am coming into contact with just such cases, cases where the physical cause and effect and the moral one can't possibly be stretched until they coincide. Somebody breaks one of the eternal laws, the laws laid down in Genesis and provable in any twentieth-century laboratory. He gets off scot free, and neither realizes what he's done, nor pays the penalty. The flying pieces, though, fall on some other man who is trudging along the trail of another law and keeping it at every point. He gets killed, or worse; and the first man never knows what he has accomplished. That sort of thing is happening all the time, somewhere or other. As a rule, too, the victim is a long way a better man than the original sinner who brought the ruin on him. Week days, we go to see him and, so far as our priestly vocabularies will allow, we help him to swear at the fate that has bowled him over. Nevertheless, on Sunday morning, we haul out our sanctity and our surplices, put them both on, and hold forth about Fatherly correction and a lot of other things that, in our heart of hearts, we don't believe." "Don't you?" the doctor asked him suddenly, after a short pause. "I do not." "Don't you, as a priest, believe, for instance, that this whole trouble was sent to Opdyke for his betterment?" Brenton halted in his walk, and gazed down at the doctor fearlessly. "I do not," he said. "You profess to," the doctor reminded him, with scant mercy. Brenton's lips stiffened. "Exactly. There is the trouble. I also profess, two or three times each Sunday, that I believe in the resurrection of the body. Nevertheless, any such belief is impossible for a man who has ever seen the equipment of a modern laboratory. As for Opdyke's case, why is it any more for his betterment than it's for the betterment of the little baby whose nurse accidentally gives it strychnine instead of squills?" "Don't be archaic, Brenton," the doctor bade him. "One doesn't give squills nowadays. However--" Brenton flung up his head impatiently. The doctor liked the gesture, liked the little angry glint in the gray eyes. "You mean then," he persisted slowly, and Brenton, listening, was aware that he was talking as one man to another, not as the senior warden of Saint Peter's to its rector; "that you are saying things on Sunday that you're denying, all the week?" Brenton nodded curtly. "That's about the size of it." Well as he had come to know the doctor, the next query took him by surprise. "What have you been eating?" Doctor Keltridge demanded briefly. "Eating!" Scott Brenton's voice was as blank as were his eyes.