was a hurried, jerky rap. I shouted, 'Come in.' The door burst open,
and on the threshold I saw Monteagle, with a white face, on which the
beads of perspiration glittered. At first I thought it was the rain
which had drenched his cap and gown, but in a moment I saw that the
perspiration was the result of terror or anxiety (cf. my lectures on
Mental Equilibrium). Monteagle and I in our undergraduate days had been
friends; but like many University friendships, ours proved evanescent;
our paths had lain in different directions.

He had chosen archaeology. We failed to convert one another to each
other's views. When he became a member of 'The Disciples,' a mystic
Oxbridge society, the fissure between us widened to a gulf. We nodded
when we met, but that was all. With Girdelstone I was not on speaking
terms. So when I found Monteagle on my threshold I confess I was
startled.

'May I come in?' he asked.

'Certainly, certainly,' I said cordially. 'But what is the matter?'

'Good God! Newall,' he cried, 'that MS. after all is a forgery.'

This expression I thought unbecoming in a 'Disciple,' but I only smiled
and said, 'Really, you think so?' Monteagle then made reference to our
old friendship, our unfortunate dissensions. He asked for my help, and
then really excited my pity. Some member of the High Church party in
Oxbridge had apparently been to Greece to attend a Conference on the
Union of the Greek and Anglican Churches. While there he met Sarpedon,
Patriarch of Hermaphroditopolis, and in course of conversation told him
of the renowned Dr. Groschen. Sarpedon became distant at mention of the