“Let us hope not. Murdwell himself is another Newton, but his Law opens the door to sheer diabolism on a cosmic scale. May its terrible secrets perish with him!—that’s the best the poor race of humans has to hope for.”
The vicar fully agreed. “Researches of this kind are surely the negation of God,” he said.
“I think with you. But heads vastly better than mine think otherwise. Good and evil are interchangeable terms in our modern world of T. N. T. and the U-boat.”
“That I shall never believe. Black is black, white is white.” It was the fighting tone, yet there was somehow a difference.
“I shall not contradict you,” said Brandon, with a smile, which had none of the old antagonism. “For one thing, the spectrum has shifted its angle since last we discussed the subject. I see you, my dear friend, and the views you hold, in a new light. But apart from that I am simply burning to talk about something else. I think I once told you that John Smith had written a play.”
“A play, was it?” Almost in spite of himself, there came an odd constraint to the vicar’s tone. “I was under the impression that it was a poem.”
“There was a poem. But there was also a play, which I think I once mentioned.”
“You may have.” Constraint was still there. “But whichever it is—does it really matter? Poor dear fellow!”
“Yes, it matters intensely.” The sudden gleam of excitement took the vicar by surprise. “The news has just reached me that the play has been produced in New York.”
Mr. Perry-Hennington agreed that the fact was remarkable, but far less so than its production in London would have been. After all, the Americans were a very curious people.