saw how even a clever man could be deceived by his own emotions.”

“But how do you know, sir, that it was not your wife?”

“Absurd, Malone! Absurd, I say! I tell you I saw her in the flames. What was there left?”

“Her soul, her spirit.”

Challenger shook his head sadly.

“When the dear body dissolved into its elements — when its gases went into the air and its residue of solids sank into a grey dust — it was the end. There was no more. She had played her part, played it beautifully, nobly. It was done. Death ends all, Malone. This soul-talk is the Animism of savages. It is a superstition, a myth. As a physiologist I will undertake to produce crime or virtue by vascular control or cerebral stimulation. I will turn a Jekyll into a Hyde by a surgical operation. Another can do it by a psychological suggestion. Alcohol will do it. Drugs will do it. Absurd, Malone, absurd ! As the tree falls, so does it lie. There is no next morning . . . night — eternal night . . . and long rest for the weary worker.”

“Well, it’s a sad philosophy.”

“Better a sad than a false one.”

“Perhaps so. There is something virile and manly in facing the worst. I would not contradict. My reason is with you.”

“But my instincts are against!” cried Enid. “No, no, never can I believe it.” She threw her arms round the great bull neck. “Don’t tell me, daddy, that you with all your complex brain and wonderful self are a thing with no more life hereafter than a broken clock!”

“Four buckets of water and a bagful of salts,” said