‘What had you been thinking of? In these days of faith-cures, and hypnotism, and telepathy, and subliminalities—why, the simple old world grows very confusing. But rarely, very rarely novel. You were thinking, you say; do you remember, perhaps, just the drift?’ ‘Well,’ began Lawford ruminatingly, ‘there was something curious even then, perhaps. I remember, for instance, I knelt down to read an old tombstone. There was a little seat—no back. And an epitaph. The sun was just setting; some French name. And there was a long jagged crack in the stone, like the black line you know one sees after lightning, I mean it’s as clear as that even now, in memory. Oh yes, I remember. And then, I suppose, came the sleep—stupid, sluggish: and then; well, here I am.’ ‘You are absolutely certain, then,’ persisted Mr Bethany almost querulously, ‘there was no living creature near you? Bless me, Lawford, I see no unkindness in believing what the Bible itself relates. There _are_ powers supernatural. Saul, and so on. We are all convinced of that. No one?’ ‘I remember distinctly,’ replied Lawford, in a calm, stubborn voice, ‘I looked up all around me, while I was kneeling there, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Because, you see, it even then occurred to me that it would have looked rather queer—my wandering about like that, I mean. Facing me there were some cypress-trees, and beyond, a low sunken fence, and then, just open country. Up above there were the gravestones toppling down the hill, where I had just strolled down, and sunshine!’ He suddenly threw up his hand. ‘Oh, marvellous! streaming in gold—flaming, like God’s own ante-chamber.’ There was a very pregnant pause. Mr Bethany shrunk back a little into his chair. His lips moved; he folded his spectacles. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. And then very quietly he stole one mole-like look into his sidesman’s face. ‘What is Dr Simon’s number?’ he said. Lawford was gazing gloomily into the fire. ‘Oh, Annandale,’ he replied absently. ‘I don’t know the number.’ ‘Do you believe in him? Your wife mentioned him. Is he clever?’ ‘Oh, he’s new,’ said Lawford; ‘old James was our doctor. He—he killed my father.’ He laughed out shamefacedly. ‘A sound, lovable man,’ said Mr Bethany, ‘one of the kindest men I ever knew; and a very old friend of mine.’ And suddenly the dark face turned with a shudder from the fire, and spoke in a low trembling voice. ‘Only one thing—only one thing—my sanity, my sanity. If once I forget, who will believe me?’ He thrust his long lean fingers beneath his coat. ‘And mad,’ he added; ‘I would sooner die.’ Mr Bethany deliberately adjusted his spectacles. ‘May I, may I experiment?’ he said boldly. There came a tap on the door. ‘Bless me,’ said the vicar, taking out his watch, ‘it is a quarter to twelve. ‘Yes, yes, Mrs Lawford,’ he trotted round to the door. ‘We are beginning to see light—a ray!’