“Oh ye of little faith!” whispered the vicar. The tears that rose to his eyes were like the blood of his heart.
Hardly had Mr. Perry-Hennington spoken the words when both he and Doctor Thorp perceived a stir at the doors of the main entrance to the institution, now in view at the far end of the corridor along which they were passing. No more than a glance was needed to tell them that the deputation was in the act of arrival. Beyond the open doors, a large motor car and an imposing array of silk hats were clearly visible in the half-light of the wet afternoon.
As the doctor and the vicar came to the main entrance, several persons entered the building. Foremost of these were Gervase Brandon and a very noble-looking old man with snow-white hair and the eyes of a child. In one hand he carried his hat, in the other a large bunch of lilies held together with a broad ribbon of white satin.
“Dr. Thorp,” said Brandon, with a happy and proud smile. “I have the great honor and privilege to present Dr. Kurt Christiansen, whose reputation has long preceded him. At the instance of a neutral government he has come to this country to pay in the name of humanity the world’s homage to our dear friend.”
Solemn but cordial bows were exchanged and then Dr. Thorp replied, “I grieve to have to tell you, sir, that our dear friend has already passed.”
The childlike bearer of the lilies looked very simply into the doctor’s eyes. “Dead,” he said.
“But being dead liveth,” said a tall clergyman from the background in a whispered tone of new authority.
There followed a moment of silence and constraint. And then it was very unexpectedly shattered by a wild appearance, grinning with strange joy and crying in an alien tongue, “He is risen! He is risen!”
Only the prompt intervention of Dr. Thorp prevented this figure of fantasy flinging its arms round the neck of Mr. Sigismund Prosser, C.B. An international incident of some magnitude was thus averted, for the representative of the Royal Academy of Literature had recently said at a public meeting that “he had done with Goethe forever.”
EPILOGUE