Evelyn Malling was well accustomed to meeting with strange people and making investigations into strange occurrences.  He was not easily surprised, nor was he easily puzzled.  By nature more skeptical than credulous, he had a cool brain, and he was seldom, if ever, the victim of his imagination.  But on the evening of the day in question he found himself continually dwelling, and with a curiously heated mind, upon the encounter of that afternoon.  Mr. Harding’s manner in the latter part of their walk together had he scarcely knew why profoundly impressed him.  He longed to see the clergyman again.  He longed, almost more ardently, to pay a visit to Henry Chichester.  Although the instinct of caution, which had perhaps been developed in him by his work among mediums, cranks of various kinds, and charlatans, had prevented him from letting the rector know that he had been struck by the change in the senior curate, that change had greatly astonished him.  Yet was it really so very marked?  He had noticed it before his attention had been drawn to it.  That he knew.  But was he not now, perhaps, exaggerating its character, “suggestioned” as it were by the obvious turmoil of Mr. Harding?  He wondered, and was disturbed by his wonderment.  Two or three times he got up, with the intention of jumping into a cab, and going to Westminster to find out if Professor Stepton was in town.  But he only got as far as the hall.  Then something seemed to check him.  He told himself that he was in no fit condition to meet the sharp eyes of the man of science, who delighted in his somewhat frigid attitude of mind toward all supposed supernormal manifestations, and he returned to his study and tried to occupy himself with a book.

On the occasion of his last return, just as he was about to sit down, his eyes chanced to fall on an almanac framed in silver which stood on his writing-table.  He took it up and stared at it.  May 8, Friday May 9, Saturday May 10, Sunday.  It was May 9.  He put the almanac back on the table with a sudden sense of relief.  For he had come to a decision.

To-morrow he would attend morning service at St. Joseph’s.

Malling was not a regular church-goer.  He belonged to the Stepton breed.  But he was an earnest man and no scoffer, and some of his best friends were priests and clergymen.  Nevertheless it was in a rather unusual go-to-meeting frame of mind that he got into a tail-coat and top hat, and set forth in a hansom to St. Joseph’s the next morning.

He had never been there before.  As he drew near he found people flowing toward the great church on foot, in cabs and carriages.  Evidently Mr. Harding had attractive powers, and Malling began to wonder whether he would have any difficulty in obtaining the seat he wanted, in some corner from which he could get a good view both of the chancel and the pulpit.  Were vergers “bribable”?  What an ignoramus he was about church matters!

He smiled to himself as he paid the cabman and joined the stream of church-goers which was passing in through the open door.

Just as he was entering the building someone in the crowd by accident jostled him, and he was pushed rather roughly against a tall lady immediately before him.  She turned round with a startled face, and Malling hastily begged her pardon.

“I was pushed,” he said.  “Forgive me.”

The lady smiled, her lips moved, doubtless in some words of conventional acceptance, then she disappeared in the throng, taking her way toward the left of the church.  She was a slim woman, with a white streak in her dark hair just above the forehead.  Her face, which was refined and handsome, had given to Malling a strong impression of anxiety.  Even when it had smiled it had looked almost tragically anxious, he thought.  The church was seated with chairs, and a man, evidently an attendant, told him that all the chairs in the right and left aisles were free.  He made his way to the right, and was fortunate enough to get one not far from the pulpit.  Unluckily, from it he could only see the left-hand side of the choir.  But the preacher would be full in his view.  The organ sounded; the procession appeared.  Over the heads of worshipers he was a tall man Malling perceived both Mr. Harding and Chichester.  The latter took his place at the end of the left-hand row of light-colored oaken stalls next to the congregation.  Malling could see him well.  But the rector was hidden from him.  He fixed his eyes upon Chichester.

The service went on its way.  The music was excellent.  A fair young man, who looked as if he might be a first-rate cricketer, one of the curates no doubt, read the lessons.  Chichester intoned with an agreeable light tenor voice.  During the third hymn, “Fight the Good Fight,” Mr. Harding mounted into the pulpit.  He let down the brass reading-desk.  He had no notes in his hands.  Evidently he was going to preach extempore.  After the “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost” had been pronounced, Malling settled himself to listen.  He felt tensely interested.  Both Mr. Harding and Chichester were now before him, the one as performer he used the word mentally, with no thought of irreverence the other as audience.  He could study both as he wished to study them at that moment.

Chichester was a small, cherubic man, with blue eyes, fair hair, and neat features, the sort of man who looks as if when a boy he must have been the leading choir-boy in a cathedral.  There was nothing powerful in his face, but much that was amiable and winning.  His chin and his forehead were rather weak.  His eyes and his mouth looked good.  Or did they?

Malling found himself wondering as Mr. Harding preached.

And was Mr. Harding the powerful preacher he was reputed to be?

At first he held his congregation.  That was evident.  Rows of rapt faces gazed up at him, as he leaned over the edge of the pulpit, or stood upright with his hands pressed palm downward upon it.  But it seemed to Malling that he held them rather because of his reputation, because of what they confidently expected of him, because of what he had done in the past, than because of what he was actually doing.  And presently they slipped out of his grasp.  He lost them.

The first thing that is necessary in an orator, if he is to be successful with an audience, is confidence in himself, a conviction that he has something to say which is worth saying, which has to be said.  Malling perceived that on this Sunday morning Mr. Harding possessed neither self-confidence nor conviction; though he made a determined, almost a violent, effort to pretend that he had both.  He took as the theme of his discourse self-knowledge, and as his motto so he called it –­the words, “Know thyself.”  This was surely a promising subject.  He began to treat it with vigor.  But very soon it became evident that he was ill at ease, as an actor becomes who cannot get into touch with his audience.  He stumbled now and then in his sentences, harked back, corrected a phrase, modified a thought, attenuated a statement.  Then, evidently bracing himself up, almost aggressively he delivered a few passages that were eloquent enough.  But the indecision returned, became more painful.  He even contradicted himself.  A “No, that is not so.  I should say ” communicated grave doubts as to his powers of clear thinking to the now confused congregation.  People began to cough and to shift about in their chairs.  A lady just beneath the pulpit unfolded a large fan and waved it slowly to and fro.  Mr. Harding paused, gazed at the fan, looked away from it, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, grasped the pulpit ledge, and went on speaking, but now with almost a faltering voice.

The congregation were doubtless ignorant of the cause of their pastor’s perturbation, but Malling felt sure that he knew what it was.

The cause was Henry Chichester.

On the cherubic face of the senior curate, as he leaned back in his stall while Mr. Harding gave out the opening words of the sermon, there had been an expression that was surely one of anxiety, such as a master’s face wears when his pupil is about to give some public exhibition.  That simile came at once into Malling’s mind.  It was the master listening to the pupil, fearing for, criticizing, striving mentally to convey help to the pupil.  And as the sermon went on it was obvious to Malling that the curate was not satisfied with it, and that his dissatisfaction was, as it were, breaking the rector down.  At certain statements of Mr. Harding looks of contempt flashed over Chichester’s face, transforming it.  The anxiety of the master, product of vanity but also of sympathy, was overlaid by the powerful contempt of a man who longs to traverse misstatements but is forced by circumstances to keep silence.  And so certain was Malling that the cause of Mr. Harding’s perturbation lay in Chichester’s mental attitude, that he longed to spring up, to take the curate by the shoulders and to thrust him out of the church.  Then all would be well.  He knew it.  The rector’s self-confidence would return and, with it, his natural powers.

But now the situation was becoming painful, almost unbearable.

With every sentence the rector became more involved, more hesitating, more impotent.  The sweat ran down his face.  Even his fine voice was affected.  It grew husky.  It seemed to be failing.  Yet he would not cease.  To Malling he gave the impression of a man governed by a secret obstinacy, fighting on though he knew it was no use, that he had lost the combat.  Malling longed to cry out to him, “Give it up!”

The congregation coughed more persistently, and the lady with the fan began to ply her instrument of torture almost hysterically.

Suddenly Malling felt obliged to look toward the left of the crowded church.  Sitting up very straight, and almost craning his neck, he stared over the heads of the fidgeting people and met the eyes of a woman, the lady with the streak of white hair against whom he had pushed when coming in.

There was a look almost of anguish on her face.  She turned her eyes toward Mr. Harding.  At the same instant the rector saw Mailing in the congregation.  He stopped short, muttered an uneven sentence, then, forcing his voice, uttered in unnaturally loud tones the “Now to God the Father,” et cetera.

Henry Chichester rose in his stall with an expression of intense thankfulness, which yet seemed somehow combined with a sneer.

The collection was made.

Before the celebration some of the choir and two of the clergy, of whom Mr. Harding was one, left the church.  Henry Chichester and the fair, athletic-looking curate remained.  Mailing took his hat and made his way slowly to the door.  As he emerged a young man stopped him and said: 

“If you please, sir, the rector would like to speak to you if you could wait just a moment.  You are Mr. Malling, I believe.”

“Yes.  How could you know?”

“Mr. Harding told me what you were like, sir, and that you were wearing a tie with a large green stone in it.  Begging your pardon, sir.”

“I will wait,” said Malling, marveling at the rector’s rapid and accurate powers of observation.

Those of the congregation who had not remained for the celebration were quickly dispersing, but Malling now noticed that the lady with the white lock was, like himself, waiting for some one.  She stood not far from him.  She was holding a parasol, and looking down; she moved its point to and fro on the ground.  Several people greeted her.  Almost as if startled she glanced up quickly, smiled, replied.  Then, as they went on, she again looked down.  There was a pucker in her brow.  Her lips twitched now and then.

Suddenly she lifted her head, turned and forced her quivering mouth to smile.  Mr. Harding had come into sight round the corner of the church.

“Ah, Mr. Malling,” he said, “so you have stayed.  Very good of you.  Sophia, let me introduce Mr. Malling to you my wife, Lady Sophia.”

The lady with the white lock held out her hand.

“You have heard Professor Stepton speak of Mr. Malling, haven’t you?” added the rector to his wife.

“Indeed I have,” she answered.

She smiled again kindly, and as if resolved to throw off her depression began to talk with some animation as they all walked together toward the street.  Directly they reached it the rector said: 

“Are you engaged to lunch to-day, Mr. Malling?”

“No,” answered Malling.

Lady Sophia turned to him and said: 

“Then I shall be informal and beg you to lunch with us, if you don’t mind our being alone.  We lunch early, at one, as my husband is tired after his morning’s work and eats virtually nothing at breakfast.”

“I shall be delighted,” said Malling.  “It’s very kind of you.”

“We always walk home,” said the rector.

He sighed.  It was obvious that he was in low spirits after the failure of the morning, but he tried to conceal the fact, and his wife tactfully helped him.  Malling praised the music warmly, and remarked on the huge congregation.

“I scarcely thought I should find a seat,” he added.

“It is always full to the doors in the morning,” said Lady Sophia, with a cheerfulness that was slightly forced.

She glanced at her husband, and suddenly added, not without a decided touch of feminine spite: 

“Unless Mr. Chichester, the senior curate, is preaching.”

“My dear Sophy!” exclaimed Mr. Harding.

“Well, it is so!” she said, with a sort of petulance.

“Perhaps Mr. Chichester is not gifted as a preacher,” said Malling.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said the rector.

“My husband never criticizes his swans,” said Lady Sophia, with delicate malice, and a glance full of meaning at Malling.  “But I’m a woman, and my principles are not so high as his.”

“You do yourself an injustice,” said the rector.  “Here we are.”

He drew out his latch-key.

Before lunch Malling was left alone for a few minutes in the drawing-room with Lady Sophia.  The rector had to see a parishioner who had called and was waiting for him in his study.  Directly her husband had left the room Lady Sophia turned to Malling and said: 

“Had you ever heard my husband preach till this morning?”

“No, never,” Mailing answered.  “I’m afraid I’m not a very regular church-goer.  I must congratulate you again on the music at St. Joseph’s.  It is exceptional.  Even at St. Anne’s Soho ”

Almost brusquely she interrupted him.  She was obviously in a highly nervous condition; and scarcely able to control herself.

“Yes, yes, our music is always good, of course.  So glad you liked it.  But what I want to say is that you haven’t heard my husband preach this morning.”

Malling looked at her with curiosity, but without astonishment.  He might have acted a part with her as he had the previous day with her husband.  But, as he looked, he came to a rapid decision, to be more frank with the woman than he had been with the man.

“You mean, of course, that your husband was not in his best vein,” he said.  “I won’t pretend that I didn’t realize that.”

“You didn’t hear him at all.  He wasn’t himself simply.”

She sat down on a sofa and clasped her hands together.

“I cannot tell you what I was feeling,” she added.  “And he used to be so full of self-confidence.  It was his great gift.  His self-confidence carried him through everything.  Nothing could have kept him back if ”

Suddenly she checked herself and looked, with a sort of covert inquiry, at Malling.

“You must think me quite mad to talk like this,” she said, with a return to her manner when he first met her.

“Shall I tell you what I really think?” he asked, leaning forward in the chair he had taken.

“Yes, do, do!”

“I think you are very ambitious for your husband and that your ambition for him has received a perhaps mysterious check.”

Before she could reply the door opened and Mr. Harding reappeared.

At lunch he carefully avoided any reference to church matters, and they talked on general subjects.  Lady Sophia showed herself a nervously intelligent and ardent woman.  It seemed to Malling obvious that she was devoted to her husband, “wrapped up in” him to use an expressive phrase.  Any failure on his part upset her even more than it did him.  Secretly she must still be quivering from the public distresses of the morning.  But she now strove to aid the rector’s admirable effort to be serene, and proved herself a clever talker, and well informed on the events of the day.  Of her Malling got a fairly clear impression.

But his impression of her husband was confused and almost nebulous.

“Do you smoke?” asked Mr. Harding, when lunch was over.

Malling said that he did.

“Then come and have a cigar in my study.”

“Yes, do go,” said Lady Sophia.  “A quiet talk with you will rest my husband.”

And she went away, leaving the two men together.

Mr. Harding’s study looked out at the back of the house upon a tiny strip of garden.  It was very comfortably, though not luxuriously, furnished, and the walls were lined with bookcases.  While his host went to a drawer to get the cigar-box, Malling idly cast his eyes over the books in the shelves nearest to him.  He always liked to see what a man had to read.  The first book his eyes rested upon was Myers’s “Human Personality.”  Then came a series of works by Hudson, including “Psychic Phenomena,” then Oliver Lodge’s “Survival of Man,” “Man and the Universe,” and “Life and Matter.”  Farther along were works by Lowes Dickinson and Professor William James, Bowden’s “The Imitation of Buddha” and Inge’s “Christian Mysticism.”  At the end of the shelf, bound in white vellum, was Don Lorenzo Scupoli’s “The Spiritual Combat.”

A drawer shut, and Mailing turned about to take the cigar which Mr. Harding offered him.

“The light is rather strong, don’t you think?” Mr. Harding said, when the two men had lit up.  “I’ll lower the blind.”

He did so, and they sat down in a sort of agreeable twilight, aware of the blaze of an almost un-English sun without.

Malling settled down to his cigar with a very definite intention to clear up his impressions of the rector.  The essence of the man baffled him.  He had known more about Lady Sophia in five minutes than he knew about Mr. Harding now, although he had talked with him, walked with him, heard him preach, and watched him intently while he was doing so.  His confusion and distress of the morning were comprehended by Malling.  They were undoubtedly caused by the preacher’s painful consciousness of the presence and criticism of one whom, apparently, he feared, or of whose adverse opinion at any rate he was in peculiar dread.  But what was the character of the man himself?  Was he saint or sinner, or just ordinary, normal man, with a usual allowance of faults and virtues?  Was he a man of real force, or was he painted lath?  The Chichester episodes seemed to point to the latter conclusion.  But Malling was too intelligent to take everything at its surface value.  He knew much of the trickery of man, but that knowledge did not blind him to the mystery of man.  He had exposed charlatans.  Yet he had often said to himself, “Who can ever really expose another?  Who can ever really expose himself?” Essentially he was the Seeker.  And he was seldom or never dogmatic.  A friend of his, who professed to believe in transmigration, had once said of him, “I’m quite certain Malling must have been a sleuth-hound once.”  Now he wished to get on a trail.

But Mr. Harding, who on the previous day had been almost strangely frank about Henry Chichester, to-day had apparently no intention to be frank about himself.  Though he had desired Malling’s company, now that they were together alone he showed a reserve through which, Malling believed, he secretly wanted to break.  But something held him back.  He talked of politics, government and church, the spread of science, the follies of the day.  And Malling got little nearer to him.  But presently Malling happened to mention the modern craze for discussing intimately, or, as a Frenchwoman whom he knew expressed it, “avec un luxe de detail,” matters of health.

“Yes, yes,” responded Mr. Harding.  “It is becoming almost objectionable, almost indecent.  At the same time the health of the body is a very interesting subject because of its effect upon the mind, even, so it seems sometimes, upon the very nature of a man.  Now I ” he struck the ash off the end of his cigar “was, I might almost say, the victim of my stomach in the pulpit this morning.”

“You were feeling ill?”

“Not exactly ill.  I have a strong constitution.  But I suffer at times from what the doctors call nervous dyspepsia.  It is a very tiresome complaint, because it takes away for the time a man’s confidence in himself, reduces him to the worm-level almost; and it gives him absurd ideas.  Now this morning in the pulpit I had an attack of pain and uneasiness, and my nerve quite gave out.  You must have noticed it.”

“I saw that you were troubled by something.”

“Something!  It was that.  My poor wife was thoroughly upset by it.  You know how sensitive women are.  To hold a crowd of people a man must be strong and well, in full possession of his powers.  And I had a good subject.”

“Splendid.”

“I’ll treat it again treat it again.”

The rector shifted in his chair.

“Do you think,” he said after a pause, “that it is possible for another, an outsider, to know a man better than he knows himself?”

“In some cases, yes,” answered Malling.

“But as a rule?”

“There is the saying that outsiders see most of the game.”

“Then why should we mind when all are subject to criticism!” exclaimed Mr. Harding, forcibly.

Evidently he was startled by his own outburst, for instantly he set about to attenuate it.

“What I mean is that men ought not to care so much as most of them undoubtedly do what others think about them.”

“It certainly is a sign of great weakness to care too much,” said Malling.  “But some people have a quite peculiar power of impressing their critical thoughts on others.  These spread uneasiness around them like an atmosphere.”

“I know, I know,” said the rector, with an almost hungry eagerness.  “Now surely one ought to keep out of such an atmosphere, to get out of it, and to keep out of it.”

“Why not?”

“But but how extraordinary it is, the difficulty men have in getting away from things!  Haven’t you noticed that?”

“Want of moral strength,” said Mailing, laconically.

“You think so?”

“Don’t you?”

At this moment there was a knock at the door.  Mr. Harding started.

“How impossible it is to get a quiet moment,” he said with acute irritation.  “Come in!” he called out.

The footman appeared.

“Mr. Chichester has called to see you, sir.”

The rector’s manner changed.  He beckoned to the man to come into the room and to shut the door.  The footman, looking surprised, obeyed.

“Where is he, Thomas?” asked Mr. Harding, in a lowered voice.  “In the hall?”

“No, sir.  As you were engaged I showed him up into the drawing-room.”

“Oh, very well.  Thank you.  You can go.”

The footman went out, still looking surprised.

Just as he was about to close the door his master said: 

“Wait a moment!”

“Sir?”

“Was her ladyship in the drawing-room?”

“No, sir.  Her ladyship is lying down in the boudoir.”

“Ah.  That will do.”

The footman shut the door.

Directly he was gone the rector got up with an air of decision.

“Mr. Malling,” he said, “perhaps I ought to apologize to you for treating you with the abruptness allowable in a friend, but surprising in an acquaintance, indeed in one who is almost a stranger.  I do apologize.  My only excuse is that I know you to be a man of exceptional trend of mind and unusual ability.  I know this from Professor Stepton.  But there’s another thing.  As I told you yesterday, you are the only person of my acquaintance who, having been fairly intimate with Henry Chichester, has not seen anything of him during the two years he has been with me as my coadjutor.  Now what I want you to do is this:  will you go upstairs and spend a few minutes alone with Chichester?  Tell him I am detained, but am coming in a moment.  I’ll see to it that you are not interrupted.  I’ll explain to my wife.  And, of course, I rely on you to make the matter appear natural to Chichester, not to rouse his but I am sure you understand.  Will you do this for me?”

“Certainly,” said Malling, with his most prosaic manner.  “Why not?”

“Why not?  Exactly.  There’s nothing objectionable in the matter.  But ” Mr. Harding’s manner became very earnest, almost tragic.  “I’ll ask you one thing afterward you will tell me the truth, exactly how Chichester impresses you now in comparison with the impression you got of him two years ago.  You you have no objection to promising to tell me?”

Malling hesitated.

“But is it quite fair to Chichester?” he said.  “Suppose I obtained, for instance, a less favorable, or even an unfavorable impression of him now?  You are his rector.  I hardly think ”

The rector interrupted him.

“I’ll leave it to you,” he said.  “Do just as you please.  But, believe me,
I have a very strong reason for wishing to know your opinion.  I need it. 
I need it.”

There was a lamentable sound in his voice.

“If I feel it is right I will give it to you,” said Malling.

The rector opened the door of the study.

“You know your way?”

“Yes.”

Malling went upstairs.  Mr. Harding stood watching him from below till he disappeared.