doubt in some inquirer's voice. It spurred him to new confirmations, new lies.
For his mathematical colleague he swore to the fourth dimension; for his historical one, to a conspectus of time. "Little windows into the past," he called it, the horrid man!
Then—then in a moment of whirl he did the fatal thing. It was a Research man called Garden who goaded him.
Garden had said—
"What were the faces? What were the voices? How did they differ from dreams?"
Professor Higginson felt the spur point.
"Garden," he said, facing that materialist with a marvellously solemn look, "Garden … How do you know reality? I saw … I heard." He shuddered, successfully. "Garden," he went on abruptly, "have you ever loved one—who died?"
"Bless you, yes!" answered Garden cheerfully.
"Garden!" continued the Philosopher in a deep but shaken voice, "I too have lost where I loved—and" (he almost whispered the rest) "and we held communion during that brief time."
"What!" said Garden. He stared at the tall, lanky Professor of Psychology. He didn't
