fellows. No, Enid, I haven’t read their reasons, and I don’t mean to, either; some things are beyond the pale. If we re-open all the old questions, how can we ever get ahead with the new ones? This matter is

settled by common sense, the law of England, the universal assent of every sane European.”

“So that’s that!” said Enid.

“However,” he continued, “I can admit that there are occasional excuses for misunderstandings upon the point.” He sank his voice, and his great grey eyes looked sadly up into vacancy. “I have known cases where the coldest intellect — even my own intellect — might, for a moment, have been shaken.”

Malone scented copy.

“Yes, sir?”

Challenger hesitated. He seemed to be struggling with himself. He wished to speak, and yet speech was painful. Then, with an abrupt, impatient gesture, he plunged into his story:

“I never told you, Enid. It was too — too intimate. Perhaps too absurd. I was ashamed to have been so shaken. But it shows how even the best balanced may be caught unawares.”

“Yes, sir?”

“It was after my wife’s death. You knew her, Malone. You can guess what it meant to me. It was the night after the cremation . . . horrible, Malone, horrible ! I saw the dear little body slide down, down — and then the glare of flame and the door clanged to.” His great body shook passed his big, hairy hand over his eyes.

“I don’t know why I tell you this; the talk seemed to lead up to it. It may be a warning to you. That night — the night after the cremation — I sat up in the hall. She was there,” he nodded at Enid. “She had