that exists between Cyril and myself. It's all purely physical.
We're very like one another. But that's all. There's none of the
Corsican Brothers sort of hocus-pocus about us in any way. The
whole thing is a simple caste of natural causation."

"Then you don't believe in brain-waves?" Nevitt suggested, with a
gracefully appropriate undulation of his small white hand.

Guy laughed incredulously. "All rubbish, my dear fellow," he answered,
"all utter rubbish. If any man knows, it's myself and Cyril. We're
as near one another as any two men on earth could possibly be;
but when we want to communicate our ideas, each to each, we have
to speak or write, just like the rest of you. Every man is like a
clock wound up to strike certain hours. Accidents may happen, events
may intervene, the clock may get smashed, and all may be prevented.
But, bar accidents, it'll strike all right, under ordinary circumstances,
when the hour arrives for it. Well, Cyril and I, as I always say,
are like two clocks wound up at the same time to strike together,
and we strike with very unusual regularity. But that's the whole
mystery. If _I_ get smashed by accident, there's no reason on earth
why Cyril shouldn't run on for years yet as usual; and if Cyril got
smashed, there's no reason on earth why I should ever know anything
about it except from the newspapers."






CHAPTER IV.