Father Murchison inclined to the normal view of the devoted churchman. He was determined to incline to it. He could not--so he now told himself--accept the idea that his friend was being supernaturally punished for his lack of humanity, his deficiency in affection, by being obliged to endure the love of some horrible thing, which could not be seen, heard, or handled. Nevertheless, retribution did certainly seem to wait upon Guildea's condition. That which he had unnaturally dreaded and shrunk from in his thought he seemed to be now forced unnaturally to suffer. The Father prayed for his friend that night before the little, humble altar in the barely-furnished, cell-like chamber where he slept. On the following evening, when he called in Hyde Park Place, the door was opened by the housemaid, and Father Murchison mounted the stairs, wondering what had become of Pitting. He was met at the library door by Guildea and was painfully struck by the alteration in his appearance. His face was ashen in hue, and there were lines beneath his eyes. The eyes themselves looked excited and horribly forlorn. His hair and dress were disordered and his lips twitched continually, as if he were shaken by some acute nervous apprehension. "What has become of Pitting?" asked the Father, grasping Guildea's hot and feverish hand. "He has left my service." "Left your service!" exclaimed the Father in utter amazement. "Yes, this afternoon." "May one ask why?" "I'm going to tell you. It's all part and parcel of this--this most odious business. You remember once discussing the relations men ought to have with their servants?" "Ah!" cried the Father, with a flash of inspiration. "The crisis has occurred?" "Exactly," said the Professor, with a bitter smile. "The crisis has occurred. I called upon Pitting to be a man and a brother. He responded by declining the invitation. I upbraided him. He gave me warning. I paid him his wages and told him he could go at once. And he has gone. What are you looking at me like that for?" "I didn't know," said Father Murchison, hastily dropping his eyes, and looking away. "Why," he added. "Napoleon is gone too." "I sold him to-day to one of those shops in Shaftesbury Avenue." "Why?" "He sickened me with his abominable imitation of--his intercourse with--well, you know what he was at last night. Besides, I have no further need of his proof to tell me I am not dreaming. And, being convinced as I now am, that all I have thought to have happened has actually happened, I care very little about convincing others. Forgive me for saying so, Murchison, but I am now certain that my anxiety to make you believe in the presence of something here really arose from some faint doubt on that subject--within myself. All doubt has now vanished." "Tell me why." "I will." Both men were standing by the fire. They continued to stand while Guildea went on, "Last night I felt it." "What?" cried the Father.