"You felt that it stayed?" "It never left me for a moment, but it did not touch me again. When it was light I took a bath, lay down for a little while, but did not close my eyes. After breakfast I had the explanation with Pitting and paid him. Then I came up here. My nerves were in a very shattered condition. Well, I sat down, tried to write, to think. But the silence was broken in the most abominable manner." "How?" "By the murmur of that appalling voice, that voice of a love-sick idiot, sickly but determined. Ugh!" He shuddered in every limb. Then he pulled himself together, assumed, with a self-conscious effort, his most determined, most aggressive, manner, and added: "I couldn't stand that. I had come to the end of my tether; so I sprang up, ordered a cab to be called, seized the cage and drove with it to a bird shop in Shaftesbury Avenue. There I sold the parrot for a trifle. I think, Murchison, that I must have been nearly mad then, for, as I came out of the wretched shop, and stood for an instant on the pavement among the cages of rabbits, guinea-pigs, and puppy dogs, I laughed aloud. I felt as if a load was lifted from my shoulders, as if in selling that voice I had sold the cursed thing that torments me. But when I got back to the house it was here. It's here now. I suppose it will always be here." He shuffled his feet on the rug in front of the fire. "What on earth am I to do?" he said. "I'm ashamed of myself, Murchison, but--but I suppose there are things in the world that certain men simply can't endure. Well, I can't endure this, and there's an end of the matter." He ceased. The Father was silent. In presence of this extraordinary distress he did not know what to say. He recognised the uselessness of attempting to comfort Guildea, and he sat with his eyes turned, almost moodily, to the ground. And while he sat there he tried to give himself to the influences within the room, to feel all that was within it. He even, half-unconsciously, tried to force his imagination to play tricks with him. But he remained totally unaware of any third person with them. At length he said, "Guildea, I cannot pretend to doubt the reality of your misery here. You must go away, and at once. When is your Paris lecture?" "Next week. In nine days from now." "Go to Paris to-morrow then, you say you have never had any consciousness that this--this thing pursued you beyond your own front door!" "Never--hitherto." "Go to-morrow morning. Stay away till after your lecture. And then let us see if the affair is at an end. Hope, my dear friend, hope." He had stood up. Now he clasped the Professor's hand. "See all your friends in Paris. Seek distractions. I would ask you also to seek--other help." He said the last words with a gentle, earnest gravity and simplicity that touched Guildea, who returned his handclasp almost warmly.