"They say! Who say?"
Serviss smiled. "The spiritualists." Then lightly added: "What would you and the rest of the scientific world do to me if I should go into this investigation and come out converted?"
The old man's eyes twinkled and his mustache writhed in silent enjoyment. "Burn you alive, as we did Bent and Zöllner."
"Of course you would. What you really want me to do is to go in and smash the whole thing, eh?"
"That's about it."
"Clarke, that crazy preacher, said we men of science were just as dogmatic in our way as the bishops, and I begin to think he's right. We condemn without investigation—we play the heretic, just as they did. Could you—could any man—go into this thing and not lose standing among his fellows?"
"No." The old figure straightened, and his mustache bristled sternly. "No; he who goes into this arena invites a kind of martyrdom—that is also why I say you, a young man—you might live to see your vindication, but I would die in my disgrace as Zöllner did."
So they parted, Serviss admiring his chief's blunt honesty and vast learning, Weissmann busy with the thought that his eyes were failing, and his work nearly done, "and so little accomplished," he sadly added.
Kate met her brother at the door in a kind of fury. "Something must be done for that girl. I have had a perfectly nerve-racking time. We must get her out of that house before they drive her crazy."
The sincerity of her rage froze the smile on his face. "Is it as bad as that?"