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  "Why do you ask me that, Guildea?"

  "Well, well!"

  "Besides, if anybody had gone in, on your return you'd have caught him, surely."

  Guildea coughed again. The Father, surprised, could not fail to recognise that he was nervous and that his nervousness was affecting him physically.

  "I must have caught cold that night," he said, as if he had read his friend's thought and hastened to contradict it. Then he went on:

  "I entered the hall, or passage, rather."

  He paused again. His uneasiness was becoming very apparent.

  "And you did catch somebody?" said the Father.

  Guildea cleared his throat.

  "That's just it," he said, "now we come to it. I'm not imaginative, as you know."

  "You certainly are not."

  "No, but hardly had I stepped into the passage before I felt certain that somebody had got into the house during my absence. I felt convinced of it, and not only that. I also felt convinced that the intruder was the very person I had dimly seen sitting upon the seat in the Park. What d'you say to that?"

  "I begin to think you are imaginative."

  "H'm! It seemed to me that the person - the occupant of the seat - and I, had simultaneously formed the project of interviewing each other, had simultaneously set out to put that project into execution. I became so certain of this that I walked hastily upstairs into this room, expecting to find the visitor awaiting me. But there was no one. I then came down again and went into the dining-room. No one. I was actually astonished. Isn't that odd?"

  "Very," said the Father, quite gravely.

  The Professor's chill and gloomy manner, and uncomfortable, constrained appearance kept away the humour that might well have lurked round the steps of such a discourse.

  "I went upstairs again," he continued, "sat down and thought the matter over. I resolved to forget it, and took up a book. I might perhaps have been able to read, but suddenly I thought I noticed -"

  He stopped abruptly. Father Murchison observed that he was staring towards the green baize that covered the parrot's cage.

  "But that's nothing," he said. "Enough that I couldn't read, I resolved to explore the house. You know how small it is, how easily one can go all over it. I went into every room without exception. To the servants, who were having supper, I made some excuse. They were surprised at my advent, no doubt."

  "And Pitting?"

  "Oh, he got up politely when I came in, stood while I was there, but never said a word. I muttered 'don't disturb yourselves,' or something of the sort, and came out. Murchison, I found nobody new in the house - yet I return to this room entirely convinced that somebody had entered while I was in the Park."

  "And gone out again before you came back?"

  "No, had stayed, and was still in the house."

  "But, my dear Guildea," began the Father, now in great astonishment. "Surely -"

  "I know what you want to say - what I should want to say in your place. Now, do wait. I am also convinced that this visitor has not left the house and is at this moment in it."

  He spoke with evident sincerity, with extreme gravity. Father Murchison looked him full in the face, and met his quick, keen eyes.

  "No," he said, as if in reply to an uttered question: "I'm perfectly sane, I assure you. The whole matter seems almost as incredible to me as it must to you. But, as you know, I never quarrel with facts, however strange. I merely try to examine into them thoroughly. I have already consulted a doctor and been pronounced in perfect bodily health."

  He paused, as if expecting the Father to say something.

  "Go on, Guildea," he said, "you haven't finished."

  "No. I felt that night positive that somebody had entered the house, and remained in it, and my conviction grew. I went to bed as usual, and, contrary to my expectation, slept as well as I generally do. Yet directly I woke up yesterday morning I knew that my household had been increased by one."

  "May I interrupt you for one moment? How did you know it?"

  "By my mental sensation. I can only say that I was perfectly conscious of a new presence within my house, close to me."

  "How very strange," said the Father. "And you feel absolutely certain that you are not overworked? Your brain does not feel tired? Your head is quite clear?"

  "Quite. I was never better. When I came down to breakfast that morning I looked sharply into Pitting's face. He was as coldly placid and inexpressive as usual. It was evident to me that his mind was in no way distressed. After breakfast I sat down to work, all the time ceaselessly conscious of the fact of this intruder upon my privacy. Nevertheless, I laboured for several hours, waiting for any developments that might occur to clear away the mysterious obscurity of this event. I lunched. About half-past two I was obliged to go out to attend a lecture. I therefore took my coat and hat, opened my door, and stepped on to the pavement. I was instantly aware that I was no longer intruded upon, and this although I was now in the street, surrounded by people. Consequently, I felt certain that the thing in my house must be thinking of me, perhaps even spying upon me."

  "Wait a moment," interrupted the Father. "What was your sensation? Was it one of fear?"

  "Oh, dear no. I was entirely puzzled - as I am now - and keenly interested, but not in any way alarmed. I delivered my lecture with my usual ease and returned home in the evening. On entering the house again I was perfectly conscious that the intruder was still there. Last night I dined alone and spent the hours after dinner in reading a scientific work in which I was deeply interested. While I read, however, I never for one moment lost the knowledge that some mind - very attentive to me - was within hail of mine. I will say more than this - the sensation constantly increased, and, by the time I got up to go to bed, I had come to a very strange conclusion."

  "What? What was it?"

  "That whoever - or whatever - had entered my house during my short absence in the Park was more than interested in me."

  "More than interested in you?"

  "Was fond, or was becoming fond, of me."

  "Oh!" exclaimed the Father. "Now I understand why you asked me just now whether I thought there was anything about you that might draw a human being or an animal irresistibly to you."

  "Precisely. Since I came to this conclusion, Murchison, I will confess that my feeling of strong curiosity has become tinged with another feeling."

  "Of fear?"

  "No, of dislike, or irritation. No - not fear, not fear."

  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 am 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.

  On the following morning Guildea left London.

  3

  Father Murchison was so busy a man that he had little time for brooding over the affairs of others. During Guildea's week at the sea, however, the Father thought about him a great deal, with much wonder and some dismay. The dismay was soon banished, for the mild-eyed priest was quick to discern weakness in himself, quicker still to drive it forth as a most undesirable inmate of the soul. But the wonder remained. It was destined to a crescendo. Guildea had left London on a Thursday. On a Thursday he returned, having previously sent a note to Father Murchison to mention that he was leaving Westgate at a certain time. When his train ran into Victoria Station, at five o'clock in the evening, he was surprised to see the cloaked figure of his friend standing upon the grey platform behind a line of porters.

  "What, Murchison!" he said. "You here! Have you seceded from your order that you are taking this holiday?"

  They shook hands.

  "No," said the Father. "It happened that I had to be in this neighbourhood to-day, visiting a sick person. So I thought I would meet you."

  "And see if I were still a sick person, eh?"

  The Professor glanced at him kindly, but with a dry little laugh.

  "Are you?" replied the Father gently, looking at him with interest. "No, I think not. You appear very well."

  The sea air had, in fact, put some brownish red into Guildea's always thin cheeks. His keen eyes were shining with life and energy, and he walked forward in his loose grey suit and fluttering overcoat with a vigour that was noticeable, carrying easily in his left hand his well-filled Gladstone bag.

  The Father felt completely reassured.

  "I never saw you look better," he said.

  "I never was better. Have you an hour to spare?"

  "Two."

  "Good. I'll send my bag up by cab, and we'll walk across the Park to my house and have a cup of tea there. What d'you say?"

  "I shall enjoy it."

  They walked out of the station yard, past the flower girls and newspaper sellers towards Grosvenor Place.

  "And you have had a pleasant time?" the Father said.

  "Pleasant enough, and lonely. I left my companion behind me in the passage at number 100, you know."

  "And you'll not find him there now, I feel sure."

  "H'm!" ejaculated Guildea. "What a precious weakling you think me, Murchison.

  As he spoke he strode forward more quickly, as if moved to emphasise his sensation of bodily vigour.

  "A weakling - no. But anyone who uses his brain as persistently as you do yours must require an occasional holiday."

  "And I required one very badly, eh?"

  "You required one, I believe."

  "Well, I've had it. And now we'll see."

  The evening was closing in rapidly. They crossed the road at Hyde Park Corner, and entered the Park, in which were a number of people going home from work; men in corduroy trousers, caked with dried mud, and carrying tin cans slung over their shoulders, and flat panniers, in which lay their tools. Some of the younger ones talked loudly or whistled shrilly as they walked.

  "Until the evening," murmured Father Murchison to himself.

  "What?" asked Guildea.

  "I was only quoting the last words of the text, which seems written upon life, especially upon the life of pleasure: 'Man goeth forth to his work, and to his labour.' "

  "Ah, those fellows are not half bad fellows to have in an audience. There were a lot of them at the lecture I gave when I first met you, I remember. One of them tried to heckle me. He had a red beard. Chaps with red beards are always hecklers. I laid him low on that occasion. Well, Murchison, and now we're going to see."

  "What?"

  "Whether my companion has departed."

  "Tell me - do you feel any expectation of - well - of again thinking something is there?"

  "How carefully you choose language. No, I merely wonder."

  "You have no apprehension?"

  "Not a scrap. But I confess to feeling curious."

  "Then the sea air hasn't taught you to recognise that the whole thing came from overstrain."

  "No," said Guildea, very drily.

  He walked on in silence for a minute. Then he added:

  "You thought it would?"

  "I certainly thought it might."

  "Make me realise that I had a sickly, morbid, rotten imagination - eh? Come now, Murchison, why not say frankly that you packed me off to Westgate to get rid of what you considered an acute form of hysteria?"

  The Father was quite unmoved by this attack.

  "Come now, Guildea," he retorted, "what did you expect me to think? I saw no indication of hysteria in you. I never have. One would suppose you the last man likely to have such a malady. But which is more natural - for me to believe in your hysteria or in the truth of such a story as you told me?"

  "You have me there. No, I mustn't complain. Well, there's no hysteria about me now, at any rate."

  "And no stranger in your house, I hope."

  Father Murchison spoke the last words with earnest gravity, dropping the half-bantering tone - which they had both assumed.

  "You take the matter very seriously, I believe," said Guildea, also speaking more gravely.

  "How else can I take it? You wouldn't have me laugh at it when you tell it me seriously?"

  "No. If we find my visitor still in the house, I may even call upon you to exorcise it. But first I must do one thing."

  "And that is?"

  "Prove to you, as well as to myself, that it is still there."

  "That might be difficult," said the Father, considerably surprised by Guildea's matter-of-fact tone.

  "I don't know. If it has remained in my house I think I can find a means. And I shall not be at all surprised if it is still there - despite the Westgate air."

  In saying the last words the Professor relapsed into his former tone of dry chaff. The Father could not quite make up his mind whether Guildea was feeling unusually grave or unusually gay. As the two men drew near to Hyde Park Place their conversation died away and they walked forward silently in the gathering darkness.

  "Here we are!" said Guildea at last.

  He thrust his key into the door, opened it and let Father Murchison into the passage, following him closely, and banging the door.

  "Here we are!" he repeated in a louder voice.

  The electric light was turned on in anticipation of his arrival. He
stood still and looked round.

  "We'll have some tea at once," he said. "Ah, Pitting!"

  The pale butler, who had heard the door bang, moved gently forward from the top of the stairs that led to the kitchen, greeted his master respectfully, took his coat and Father Murchison's cloak, and hung them on two pegs against the wall.

  "All's right, Pitting? All's as usual?" said Guildea.

  "Quite so, sir."

  "Bring me up some tea to the library."

  "Yes, sir."

  Pitting retreated. Guildea waited till he had disappeared, then opened the dining-room door, put his head into the room and kept it there for a moment, standing perfectly still. Presently he drew back into the passage, shut the door, and said:

  "Let's go upstairs."

  Father Murchison looked at him enquiringly, but made no remark. They ascended the stairs and came into the library. Guildea glanced rather sharply round. A fire was burning on the hearth. The blue curtains were drawn. The bright gleam of the strong electric light fell on the long rows of books, on the writing table - very orderly in consequent of Guildea's holiday - and on the uncovered cage of the parrot. Guildea went up to the cage. Napoleon was sitting humped up on his perch with his feathers ruffled. His long toes, which looked as if they were covered with crocodile skin, clung to the bar. His round and blinking eyes were filmy, like old eyes. Guildea stared at the bird very hard, and then clucked with his tongue against his teeth. Napoleon shook himself, lifted one foot, extended his toes, sidled along the perch to the bars nearest to the Professor and thrust his head against them. Guildea scratched it with his forefinger two or three times, still gazing attentively at the parrot; then he returned to the fire just as Pitting entered with the tea-tray.

  Father Murchison was already sitting in an armchair on one side of the fire. Guildea took another chair and began to pour out tea, as Pitting left the room, closing the door gently behind him. The Father sipped his tea, found it hot and set the cup down on a little table at his side.

  "You're fond of that parrot, aren't you?" he asked his friend.

  "Not particularly. It's interesting to study sometimes. The parrot mind and nature are peculiar."

  "How long have you had him?"