Father Murchison was extremely puzzled as he sat on the top of the omnibus going homeward. IV. In two days' time he received a note from Guildea asking him to call, if possible, the same evening. This he was unable to do as he had an engagement to fulfil at some East End gathering. The following day was Sunday. He wrote saying he would come on the Monday, and got a wire shortly afterwards: "Yes, Monday come to dinner seven-thirty Guildea." At half-past seven he stood on the doorstep of Number 100. Pitting let him in. "Is the Professor quite well, Pitting?" the Father enquired as he took off his cloak. "I believe so, sir. He has not made any complaint," the butler formally replied. "Will you come upstairs, sir?" Guildea met them at the door of the library. He was very pale and sombre, and shook hands carelessly with his friend. "Give us dinner," he said to Pitting. As the butler retired, Guildea shut the door rather cautiously. Father Murchison had never before seen him look so disturbed. "You're worried, Guildea," the Father said. "Seriously worried." "Yes, I am. This business is beginning to tell on me a good deal." "Your belief in the presence of something here continues then?" "Oh, dear, yes. There's no sort of doubt about the matter. The night I went across the road into the Park something got into the house, though what the devil it is I can't yet find out. But now, before we go down to dinner, I'll just tell you something about that proof I promised you. You remember?" "Naturally." "Can't you imagine what it might be." Father Murchison moved his head to express a negative reply. "Look about the room," said Guildea. "What do you see?" The Father glanced round the room, slowly and carefully. "Nothing unusual. You do not mean to tell me there is any appearance of----" "Oh, no, no, there's no conventional, white-robed, cloud-like figure. Bless my soul, no! I haven't fallen so low as that." He spoke with considerable irritation. "Look again." Father Murchison looked at him, turned in the direction of his fixed eyes and saw the grey parrot clambering in its cage, slowly and persistently. "What?" he said, quickly. "Will the proof come from there?" The Professor nodded. "I believe so," he said. "Now let's go down to dinner. I want some food badly." They descended to the dining-room. While they ate and Pitting waited upon them, the Professor talked about birds, their habits, their curiosities, their fears and their powers of imitation. He had evidently studied this subject with the thoroughness that was characteristic of him in all that he did. "Parrots," he said presently, "are extraordinarily observant. It is a pity that their means of reproducing what they see are so limited. If it were not so, I have little doubt that their echo of gesture would be as remarkable as their echo of voice often is." "But hands are missing."