Ranville gave a little puzzled shake of his head and looked at the minister as though he was studying a new sort of animal. Then he asked: “Well, how do you expect to stop all the scientific teaching?” The minister almost jumped from his chair as he cried: “We are going to stop it! We must! We have millions of God-fearing people behind us. Before we are through, we will prevent the teaching of evolution by law. Make it a crime to put materialistic theories in the minds of the young.” Bartley's eyes met those of Ranville and the two men faintly smiled. I looked at the minister, hardly thinking he believed what he was saying. It needed, however, but a glance at the thin face and the fixed determined lips to see that he was in earnest. There was a certain look in his eyes that I did not like—the look of the fanatic. But just when I had thought of that his expression changed and there came a smile around his lips—a smile which made his face almost attractive. He half laughed as he said: “Well, I was getting started on my hobby. It is all true what I have said. Religion is dying out under the sweep of materialistic things. Why in the ten churches in this town—churches which will seat around four thousand people—there were only 540 in them all last Sunday. But—” He hesitated, and then went on: “But I don't want you to take what I said amiss. I am very sorry Mr. Warren was killed. But in a sense to me it seems that if such a thing had to happen, it was good it came when it did.” “What do you mean by that?” came Ranville's surprised question. “Why now that book of his will never be published,” was the retort. There came Bartley's cool voice: “Oh, yes, it will. Niles Patton, who was Warren's assistant on the trip into China, is to arrive to-morrow. He will finish editing Warren's notes. The book will be out all right.” I saw a very surprised look sweep across the minister's face, and there came a slight frown. But he said nothing for a minute, and when he did speak, it was to ask if we thought the Chinaman who had been mentioned at the inquest, had anything to do with the murder. He was told we did not know, and then for some reason the conversation died away. Inviting us to call at his house, he bade us good night and went out. After his footsteps had died away, Ranville turned to Bartley with a little laugh and asked: “Do you have many like him?”