himself well out of it—but Sin is a hard master.
"Well?" asked Babcock, quite unchanged in face.
"Well," proceeded Professor Higginson, still more slowly, "this is what I have got to tell you. Many, all of those faces—and mind you they talked to me, Babcock, they talked to me" (the Professor was warming to his work)—"I didn't know. But I knew one, Babcock," and here Higginson's voice fell (as his trick had grown to be during these recitals) to a deeper tone. "Do you know who it was? … It was poor Morris!"
Babcock rose again and came and stood over the wretched Philosopher. The Philosopher looked up like a child, an erring child.
"Good Heavens!" sighed Babcock. "What extraordinary ideas you have! That 's not what people notice. Why, men can do that in their sleep." Then with sudden vigour, "What else did you see, Higginson? Something you couldn't have known? Something nobody knew?"
Professor Higginson thought. Detailed imaginative fiction had never been in his line, though he had dealt in it pretty freely all that day. He thought hard and confusedly; but
