As was to be expected, Joliffe had scant consolation to offer. “_Tu l’as voulu, Georges Dandin_,” was his attitude. The vicar had shown himself an obstinate, narrow man, and even if absolute sincerity and transparent honesty formed his excuse, somehow it was not an easy one to accept. “Pity you didn’t take advice,” Joliffe ventured to remark. “I don’t reproach myself,” said the vicar stiffly. “It had to be done. The public interest called for it. But I wish that old woman could have been spared the shock. Every precaution was taken, the removal was most carefully planned, the whole thing went without a hitch. I can’t think how the news got out.” Dr. Joliffe confessed that he was equally at a loss. He had questioned Mrs. Bent closely upon the matter, and she had declared that John’s mother had said that God had told her something terrible was going to happen to her son. He had told her also that they were about to be parted, and that she would never see him again in her present life. “An amazing prepossession,” said the vicar. Dr. Joliffe was inclined to consider it a remarkable piece of clairvoyance. “I was not aware that she laid claim to powers of that kind,” said the vicar. “Nor I,” said the doctor. “Of course she was always an unusual sort of woman, and deeply religious.” “Evidently there was a great bond of sympathy between her and her son.” Dr. Joliffe agreed. There was reason, also, to believe that the son was a man of unusual powers. “Why do you think that?” said the vicar sharply. “It is Brandon’s opinion.” The vicar shook a grave head. “I’m sorry to say that Brandon’s opinion is not conclusive, poor fellow. He is very far from being the man he was. Between ourselves I fear his mind is going.” The doctor was loth to admit so much. He greatly feared for Brandon, it was true; moreover John Smith had gained such an intellectual ascendancy over him that it seemed to point to the vicar’s conclusion; at the same time Joliffe was unwilling to believe that Brandon’s estimate of the man’s genius was wholly the fruit of aberration. “But,” rejoined the vicar, “Brandon is a very highly educated man. And a highly educated man has no right to such an opinion.” “Well, you know, when I was in Brombridge the other day I met old Dunn, the high master of the grammar school where John Smith got his education. I asked him if he remembered him.” “Well?” “Not only did he remember him, but he said that John Smith was by far the most remarkable boy who had ever passed through his hands.” “Then why didn’t Dunn make something of him?” “Because the lad’s health forbade hard regular study. Otherwise he must have gone far.” “That is more than one can believe.” “I can only say that Dunn is reckoned a first-rate judge of a boy’s possibilities.”