Brandon, indeed, was only too ready to discuss the matter. The tenant of Longwood had loomed large in his thoughts from the hour in which he had first had the privilege of knowing him. To the mind of a Gervase Brandon, he was a portent, a phenomenon; in sober truth “the writing on the wall for the human race.” But the vicar’s news caused Brandon less concern than might have been the case had he not been able in a measure to anticipate and therefore to discount it. He recalled his last glimpse of Professor Murdwell in London, and the prophetic words of Urban Meyer. “A terrible nemesis,” said the vicar. “A great tragedy.” “An intervention of a merciful providence,” was Brandon’s rejoinder. “No doubt--if his theories are rooted in scientific fact. To me, I confess, they seem wholly fantastic. They suggest megalomania. How does Murdwell’s Law stand scientifically?” “It is accepted by the mathematician, and is said to provide a key to certain unknown forces in the physical world. It has given rise to an immense amount of speculation, and for some little time past very remarkable developments have been predicted.” “Which may not now materialize?” “Let us hope not. Murdwell himself is another Newton, but his Law opens the door to sheer diabolism on a cosmic scale. May its terrible secrets perish with him!--that’s the best the poor race of humans has to hope for.” The vicar fully agreed. “Researches of this kind are surely the negation of God,” he said. “I think with you. But heads vastly better than mine think otherwise. Good and evil are interchangeable terms in our modern world of T. N. T. and the U-boat.” “That I shall never believe. Black is black, white is white.” It was the fighting tone, yet there was somehow a difference. “I shall not contradict you,” said Brandon, with a smile, which had none of the old antagonism. “For one thing, the spectrum has shifted its angle since last we discussed the subject. I see you, my dear friend, and the views you hold, in a new light. But apart from that I am simply burning to talk about something else. I think I once told you that John Smith had written a play.” “A play, was it?” Almost in spite of himself, there came an odd constraint to the vicar’s tone. “I was under the impression that it was a poem.” “There was a poem. But there was also a play, which I think I once mentioned.” “You may have.” Constraint was still there. “But whichever it is--does it really matter? Poor dear fellow!” “Yes, it matters intensely.” The sudden gleam of excitement took the vicar by surprise. “The news has just reached me that the play has been produced in New York.” Mr. Perry-Hennington agreed that the fact was remarkable, but far less so than its production in London would have been. After all, the Americans were a very curious people. “But it starts with every augury of world-wide success.” “Isn’t that the American way? Mustn’t they always be licking creation over there?”