"Very odd! It isn't only in the face. Even the figure, all covered up and umbrella-roofed, seems to have something--he'll send me the sermon of the man and his double to-morrow." And on the morrow that sermon came by the first post. Having read it, the professor promptly returned it to Chichester with the following note: _The White House, Westminster. Dear Mr. Chichester:_ Very glad to have had the opportunity of reading your interesting discourse. If I had not known it was yours, and a sermon, I should have said "a posthumous work of Robert Louis Stevenson." It does credit to your imagination. If you care to publish, I should suggest "The Cornhill." I know nothing about their terms. Yours faithfully, _G.R.E. Stepton._ By return of post, there came an urgent invitation to the professor to visit Chichester's rooms in Hornton Street, "to continue a discussion which has a special interest for me at this moment." "Discussion!" thought Stepton, sitting down to accept, "What my man wants is for me to goad him into revelation; and I'll do it." The professor knew enough of psychology to be aware that in the very depths of the human heart there is a desire which may perhaps be called socialistic--the desire to share truth with one's fellow-men. Chichester was scourged by this desire. But whether what he wished to share was truth, or only what he believed to be truth, was the question. Anyhow, Stepton was determined to make him speak. And he set off to Hornton Street little doubting that he would find means to carry his determination into effect. He arrived about half-past five. He did not turn the corner into Kensington High Street on his homeward way until darkness had fallen, having passed through some of the most extraordinary moments that had ever been his. When he was shown into the curate's sitting-room, his first remark was: "Sent that very interesting story to 'The Cornhill' yet?" "I don't think you quite understand, Professor," replied Chichester. "I did not type it with a view to sending it in anywhere for publication. You'll have tea with me, I hope? Here it is, all ready." "Thank you." "Oh, Ellen!" Chichester went to the door, and Stepton heard the words, "Nobody, you understand," following on a subdued murmuring. "And Mr. Harding, sir?" said the maid's voice outside. "Mr. Harding won't come to-day. That will do, Ellen." The professor heard steps descending. His host shut the door and returned. "You typed it for your own use?" said Stepton. "That sermon? Yes. I wished to keep it by me as a record." He sat down, and poured out the tea. "A record of an imagined experience. Exactly. Then why not publish?" "It is not fiction." "Well, it isn't fact." The professor drank his tea, looking at his host narrowly over the cup. "Do you say such an experience as that described in my sermon is impossible?" "Do you say it is possible?" "If I were to say so would you believe me?"