devil--"

There was a perceptible pause. The Professor restored his glasses
and looked at his friend. "Well--?" he said simply.

"Well--?" echoed the other, still staring. "Ah--I see; you mean that
that's what explains it. The swing of the pendulum, and so forth.
Well, I admit it's not an uncommon phenomenon. I've conformed
myself, for example; most of our crowd have, I believe; but somehow
I hadn't expected it of you."

The close observer might have detected a faint sadness under the
official congratulation of his tone; but the Professor was too
amazed to have an ear for such fine shades.

"Expected it of me? Expected what of me?" he gasped. "What in heaven
do you think this thing is?" And he struck his fist on the
manuscript which lay between them.

Harviss had recovered his optimistic creases. He rested a benevolent
eye on the document.

"Why, your apologia--your confession of faith, I should call it. You
surely must have seen which way you were going? You can't have
written it in your sleep?"

"Oh, no, I was wide awake enough," said the Professor faintly.

"Well, then, why are you staring at me as if I were _not?"_ Harviss
leaned forward to lay a reassuring hand on his visitor's worn