". . . So I am in Westminster Hospital," he considered. "That is extraordinarily interesting and affecting. I have often seen the outside of it. It is of discoloured brick. And I have been here . . . how long? how long, did they say? . . . Oh! that is a long time. Five days! And what in the world can have happened to my work? They will be looking out for me in the Museum. How can Dr. Waterman's history get on without me? I must see about that at once. He'll understand that it's not my fault. . . . "What's that? I mustn't trouble myself about that? But--Oh! Dr. Waterman has been here, has he? That's very kind--very kind and thoughtful indeed. And I'm to take my time, am I? Very well. Please thank Dr. Waterman for his kindness and his thoughtfulness in enquiring. . . . And tell him I'll be with him again in a day or two at any rate. . . . Oh! tell him that he'll find the references to the thirteenth-century Popes in the black notebook--the thick one--on the right of the fire-place. They're all verified. Thank you, thank you very much. . . . and . . . by the way . . . just tell him I'm not sure yet about the Piccolomini matter. . . . What's that? I'm not to trouble myself? . . . But . . . Oh! very well. Thank you. . . . Thank you very much." There followed a long pause. He was thinking still very hard about the thirteenth-century Popes. It was really very tiresome that he could not explain to Dr. Waterman himself. He was certain that some of the pages in the thick black notebook were loose; and how terrible it would be if the book were taken out carelessly, and some of the pages fell into the fire. They easily might! And then there'd be all the work to do again. . . . And that would mean weeks and weeks. . . . Then there came a grave, quiet voice of a woman speaking in his ear; but for a long time he could not understand. He wished it would let him alone. He wanted to think about the Popes. He tried nodding and murmuring a general sort of assent, as if he wished to go to sleep; but it was useless: the voice went on and on. And then suddenly he understood, and a kind of fury seized him. How did they know he had once been a priest? Spying and badgering, as usual! . . . No: he did not want a priest sent for. He was not a priest any more; not even a Catholic. It was all lies--lies from the beginning to the end--all that they had taught him in the seminary. It was all lies! There! Was that plain enough? . . .