As Guildea repeated unnecessarily this asseveration he looked again towards the parrot's cage. "What is there to be afraid of in such a matter?" he added. "I'm not a child to tremble before bogies." In saying the last words he raised his voice sharply; then he walked quickly to the cage, and, with an abrupt movement, pulled the baize covering from it. Napoleon was disclosed, apparently dozing upon his perch with his head held slightly on one side. As the light reached him, he moved, ruffled the feathers about his neck, blinked his eyes, and began slowly to sidle to and fro, thrusting his head forward and drawing it back with an air of complacent, though rather unmeaning, energy. Guildea stood by the cage, looking at him closely, and indeed with an attention that was so intense as to be remarkable, almost unnatural. "How absurd these birds are!" he said at length, coming back to the fire. "You have no more to tell me?" asked the Father. "No. I am still aware of the presence of something in my house. I am still conscious of its close attention to me. I am still irritated, seriously annoyed--I confess it,--by that attention." "You say you are aware of the presence of something at this moment?" "At this moment--yes." "Do you mean in this room, with us, now?" "I should say so--at any rate, quite near us." Again he glanced quickly, almost suspiciously, towards the cage of the parrot. The bird was sitting still on its perch now. Its head was bent down and cocked sideways, and it appeared to be listening attentively to something. "That bird will have the intonations of my voice more correctly than ever by to-morrow morning," said the Father, watching Guildea closely with his mild blue eyes. "And it has always imitated me very cleverly." The Professor started slightly. "Yes," he said. "Yes, no doubt. Well, what do you make of this affair?" "Nothing at all. It is absolutely inexplicable. I can speak quite frankly to you, I feel sure." "Of course. That's why I have told you the whole thing." "I think you must be over-worked, over-strained, without knowing it." "And that the doctor was mistaken when he said I was all right?" "Yes." Guildea knocked his pipe out against the chimney piece. "It may be so," he said, "I will not be so unreasonable as to deny the possibility, although I feel as well as I ever did in my life. What do you advise then?" "A week of complete rest away from London, in good air." "The usual prescription. I'll take it. I'll go to-morrow to Westgate and leave Napoleon to keep house in my absence." For some reason, which he could not explain to himself, the pleasure which Father Murchison felt in hearing the first part of his friend's final remark was lessened, was almost destroyed, by the last sentence. He walked towards the City that night, deep in thought, remembering and carefully considering the first interview he had with Guildea in the latter's house a year and a half before.