Two days elapsed before the evening on which the attempt was to be made; Carrick, alleging difficulties and dangers with long scientific names, had refused to try it earlier. He had been unwilling to try it at all.
"I don't want to mix up a matter of clear science with your religious emotions," he had declared. "And I've got a certain amount of religion of my own, for that matter. I manage to believe in it without corroboration; what's the matter with yours, that you can't do the same?"
But it was not corroboration which Mr. Newman desired. He had not so much argued as insisted; and it had been difficult to reason with his manner of one buoyed up, exalted, inspired. He had had his way, on the sole condition that he should wait two days—"and give sanity a chance," Carrick had added.
But on the stroke of nine, on the appointed evening, he was standing within the door of Carrick's study, his hat in his hand, a white silk muffler about his neck, instead of a collar.
"I was very careful to eat very little at dinner," were his first words.
Carrick, who had been looking forward to his arrival with nervous dread, glanced up sharply with an affectation of annoyance at an interruption.
"More fool you," he barked, in his harshest voice. Mr. Newman smiled, and laid his hat down on the table and began to unwind his muffler.
Carrick frowned at him. "I'm rather busy to-night, Newman," he said. That had no effect. He rose. "Besides, something has occurred to me, and—it is not safe, you know."
Mr. Newman laid his muffler beside his hat; without it he had a curiously incomplete and undressed appearance. He turned round.
"Oh yes, it is," he contradicted mildly. "As safe as it was on
Monday, at any rate!"