sometimes with their souls.

The man at the table lifted his head. He laid down the pen, blotted the
book in which he had been writing, shut it up, clasped it, locked it with
a tiny key, and put it carefully into a drawer of the table, which also
he locked. He got up, stood for an instant by the table with one hand
upon it, then turned slowly toward the window, smiling, as men smile to
themselves when they are thinking of their own ingenuities.

The man outside the window fell back into the snow as if God's hand had
touched him. He had seen his own face! So he smiled sometimes at the end
of a day, when he had finished writing down in his diary some of the
hidden things of his life.

He turned, and as the window through which he had been looking suddenly
darkened, he fled away into the night.

When the lights, which at St. Joseph's were always kept lowered during
the sermon, once more strongly illuminated the chancel, Mr. Harding
turned a ghastly face toward the pulpit. In the morning Chichester had
listened to him, as a man of truth might listen to a man who is trying
to lie, but who cannot deceive him. In the evening Mr. Harding had
listened to Chichester--how? What had been the emotions only shadowed
faintly forth in that ghastly face?

When Malling got home, he asked himself why Chichester had made such
an impression upon his mind. His story of the double, strange enough,
no doubt, in a sermon, could not surely have come upon Malling with any
of the force and the interest of the new. For years he had been familiar
with tales of ghosts, of voices, of appearances at the hour of death, of