Gently, but with decision, Mr. Newman put his friendly hand away.
"It's not an illusion," he said.
He walked away. Carrick stood staring after him, a battlefield of compunctions and a growing curiosity. Mr. Newman was wrestling with his trouble in the shadows; minutes passed before he came again into the lamplight. His face was blenched, but something like a stricken purpose dwelt on it.
"I'll tell you," he said. Then, wildly, "Oh, man! why did you let me? This trick of yours—it's the knowledge of good and evil; it's the forbidden fruit. Why did you let me?"
Carrick stammered futilely; there was no answer possible to give.
"I am a Christian," went on Mr. Newman, as though he appealed for justification. "By my lights I serve God. I try not to judge others. I've not judged you, have I, Carrick? You—you don't go to church, but I make a friend of you, don't I?"
"Yes," said Carrick.
"Then—why—" cried Mr. Newman—"why, of all people, should I—oh,
Carrick, I don't know how to tell you."
Let Carrick's answer be remembered when his epitaph is written.
"Then don't tell me," he said. "I don't want to hear."
Mr. Newman shook his head. He had come to a standstill at the side of the big chair. He looked old and stricken and sad.