"Lord! How d'you expect me to know that?"
The old man pondered in silence, seeming to assimilate the situation.
"He's in a devil of a mess," he said, with abrupt cheerfulness. "That man Vincent--"
"Well?"
"He's the most dangerous of the lot. Just because he's honest."
"Good God!" broke in the other again suddenly. "Do all Catholics believe this rubbish?"
"My dear friend, of course they don't. Not one in a thousand. I wish they did. That's what's the matter. But they laugh at it--laugh at it!"... His voice cracked into shrill falsetto.... "Laugh at hell-fire.... Is Sunday the day, did you say?"
"He told me the twenty-fifth."
"And at that woman's in Queen's Gate, I suppose?"
"Expect so. He didn't say. Or I forget."
"I heard they were at their games there again," said Mr. Cathcart with meditative geniality. "I'd like to blow up the stinking hole."
Mr. Morton chuckled audibly.
"You're the youngest man of your years I've ever come across," he said. "No wonder you believe all that stuff. When are you going to grow up, Cathcart?"
The old man paid no attention at all.
"Well--that plot's over," he said again. "Now for Miss Deronnais. But we can't stop this Sunday affair; that's certain. Did he tell you anything about it? Materialization? Automatic--"
"Lord, I don't know all that jargon...."
"My dear Morton, for a lawyer, you're the worst witness I've ever--Well, I'm off. No more to be done today."
* * * * *
The other sat on a few minutes over his pipe.
It seemed to him quite amazing that a sensible man like Cathcart could take such rubbish seriously. In every other department of life the solicitor was an eminently shrewd and sane man, with, moreover, a youthful kind of brisk humor that is perhaps the surest symptom of sanity that it is possible to have.
He had seen him in court for years past under every sort of circumstance, and if it had been required of him to select a character with which superstition and morbid humbug could have had nothing in common, he would have laid his hand upon the senior partner of Cathcart and Cathcart. Yet here was this sane man, taking this fantastic nonsense as if there were really something in it. He had first heard him speak of the subject at a small bachelor dinner party of four in the rooms of a mutual friend; and, as he had listened, he had had the same sensation as one would have upon hearing a Cabinet Minister, let us say, discussing stump-cricket with enthusiasm.