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Updated: May 13, 2025
He said the last words with a gentle, earnest gravity and simplicity that touched Guildea, who returned his handclasp almost warmly. "I'll go," he said. "I'll catch the ten o'clock train, and to-night I'll sleep at an hotel, at the Grosvenor that's close to the station. It will be more convenient for the train."
Guildea turned his bright eyes towards Pitting, who at the moment was tenderly bearing a cheese meringue from the lift that connected the dining-room with the lower regions. The Father closed his lips again. But presently, when the butler had placed some apples on the table, had meticulously arranged the decanters, brushed away the crumbs and evaporated, he said, quickly, "I begin to understand.
"You don't look well to-night," the Father said. "No?" "You must be working too hard. That lecture you are going to give in Paris is bothering you?" "Not a bit. It's all arranged. I could deliver it to you at this moment verbatim. Well, sit down." The Father did so, and Guildea sank once more into his chair and stared hard into the fire without another word. He seemed to be thinking profoundly.
As he was leaving the hall he abruptly asked the Father to call on him at his house in Hyde Park Place. And the Father, who seldom went into the West End, except to preach, accepted the invitation. "When will you come?" said Guildea. He was folding up the blue paper on which his notes were written in a tiny, clear hand. The leaves rustled drily in accompaniment to his sharp, dry voice.
"Yes, sir," replied Pitting. "Will you please come this way?" He moved noiselessly up the rather narrow stairs, followed by the Father, tenderly opened the library door, and in his soft, cold voice, announced: "Father Murchison." Guildea was sitting in an armchair, before a small fire. His thin, long-fingered hands lay outstretched upon his knees, his head was sunk down on his chest.
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 consequence 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.
"Then I ought to have affection poured upon me," said Guildea, smiling rather grimly. "For I hate it." "Perhaps some day you will." "I hope not, most sincerely." Father Murchison said nothing for a moment. He was drawing together the ends of the broad band round his cassock. When he spoke he seemed to be answering someone. "Yes," he said slowly, "yes, that is my feeling pity."
Then he said, rather doubtfully: "It ought to be." "But isn't it?" asked Guildea, surprised. "Well, you know, your manner is enormously convincing. Still, of course, I doubt. How can I do otherwise? The whole thing must be fancy." The Father spoke as if he were trying to recoil from a mental position he was being forced to take up. "It must be fancy," he repeated.
He had come upon the following paragraph: "We regret to announce that Professor Frederic Guildea was suddenly seized with severe illness yesterday evening while addressing a scientific meeting in Paris. It was observed that he looked very pale and nervous when he rose to his feet. Nevertheless, he spoke in French fluently for about a quarter of an hour. Then he appeared to become uneasy.
They spoke of other things till their cigarettes were finished. Then, as they threw away the smouldering ends, Guildea said, "Now, Murchison, for the sake of this experiment, I suggest that we should conceal ourselves behind the curtains on either side of the cage, so that the bird's attention may not be drawn towards us and so distracted from that which we want to know more about.
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