"Ah, very likely," rejoined the Doctor, glad of the opportunity to enforce his analogy. "There's not the least doubt that many so-called miracles in the past had their origin in some pathological condition improperly understood at the time. Moses probably suffered from some sort of hysteria--a sort of hypnosis. Even in those days there was the problem of nervous breakdown." His voice died away. The Curate was not actually shaking his head, but there was upon his features an expression of incredulity, the like of which the Doctor had not seen before upon a human face, for it was the incredulity of a man to whom all arguments against the incredible are in themselves unbelievable. It was a grotesque expression, and with it there went a pathetic fluttering of the Curate's eyelids, a twitching of his lips, a clasping of small white hands. "I'm afraid your explanation won't hold water," he rejoined. "I can't bring myself not to believe in what I saw. You see, all my life I have been trying to believe in miracles, in manifestations. I have always said that if only we could bring ourselves to accept what is not obvious. My best sermons have been upon that subject: of the desirability of getting ourselves into the receptive state. Sometimes the Vicar has objected. He seemed to think I was piling it on deliberately. But I assure you, Doctor Allingham, that I have always wanted to believe--and, in this case, it was only my infirmity and my unfortunate nervousness that led me to lose such an opportunity." The Doctor drew himself up stiffly, and just perceptibly indicated the door. "I think you need a holiday," he remarked, "and a change from theological pursuits. And don't forget. Rest, for a few days, in a sitting posture." "Thank you," the Curate beamed, "I'm afraid the Vicar will be very annoyed, but it can't be helped." They were in the hall now, and the Doctor was holding the street door open. "But it _happened_," the Curate whispered. "It really did _happen_--and we shall hear and see more. I only hope I shall be well enough to stand it. We are living in great days." He hovered on the doorstep, rubbing his hands together and looking timidly up at the stars as though half expecting to see a sign. "It distressed me at first," he resumed, "because he was such an odd-looking person, and the whole experience was really on the humorous side. I wanted to laugh at him, and it made me feel so disgraceful. But I'm quite sure he was a manifestation of something, perhaps an apotheosis." "Don't hurry home," warned the Doctor. "Take things quietly." "Oh, yes, of course. The body is a frail instrument. One forgets that. So good of you. But the spirit endures. Good night." He glided along the deserted High Street. The Doctor held the door ajar for a long while and watched that frail figure, nursing a tremendous conviction and hurrying along, in spite of instructions to the contrary. CHAPTER SEVEN THE CLOCKWORK MAN EXPLAINS HIMSELF I