They were all watching, and watching very intently. All they could see was a bright circle of light which flashed out upon the opposite wall. It was just as though they were watching an ordinary exhibition of the magic-lantern or the cinematograph.

And suddenly, swiftly, these world-worn and weary people of society, these scientists who lived by measure and by rule, saw that all Sir William Gouldesbrough had said was true—and truer than he himself knew.

For upon this white screen, where all their eyes were fixed, there came a picture of the Holy City, and it was a picture such as no single person there had ever seen before.

For it was not that definite and coloured presentment of a scene caught by the camera and reproduced through the mechanical means of a lens, which is a thing which has no soul. It was the picture of that Holy City to which all men's thoughts turn in trouble or in great crises of their lives. And it was a picture coloured by the imagination of the man who had just come back from Jerusalem, and who remembered it in the light of the Christian Faith and informed it with all the power of his own personality.

They saw the sharp outlines of the olive trees, immemorially old, as a fringe to the picture. The sun was shining, the white domes and roofs were glistening, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre loomed up large in this vista, seen through a temperament, and through a memory, and seen from a hill.

For a brief space, they all caught their breath and shuddered at the marvellous revelation of the power and magnificence of thought which was revealed to them at that moment. And then they watched the changing, shifting phantom, which was born from the thought of this good man, with a chill and shudder at the incredible wonder of it all.

The afternoon, as it has been said, was thunderous and grim. While the representatives of the world that matters had been listening to Sir William, the forces of nature had been massing themselves upon the frontier-line of experience and thought. And now, at this great moment, the clouds broke, the thunder stammered, and in that darkened place the white and amethyst lightning came and flickered like a spear thrown from immensity.

The gong of the thunder, the crack and flame of the lightning, passed. There was a dead silence. Still the spectators saw the mapped landscape of the Holy City shining before them, glad, radiant and serene.

And then, old Lady Poole dropped her fan—a heavy fan made of ebony and black silk. It clattered down the tier of seats and brought an alien note into the tension and the darkness of the laboratory.

Everybody started in the gloom. There was a little momentary flutter of excitement. And, as they all watched the gleaming circle of light upon which the brain of the Bishop had painted his memories so truthfully and well, they saw a sudden change. The whole, beautiful picture became troubled, misty. It shook like a thing seen through water at a great depth.

Then the vision of the City where God suffered went straight away. There was no more of it. It vanished as a breath breathed upon a window clouds and vanishes.

The concentration of mind of the Bishop must then—as it was said afterwards—have been interrupted by the sudden sound of the falling fan, for all those celebrated men and women who sat and watched saw dim grey words, like clouds of smoke which had formed themselves into the written symbols of speech, appear in the light.

And these were the words—

"God will not allow——"

At that moment the silence was broken by a tiny sound. It is always the small sound that defines blackness and silence.

Sir William, who perhaps had realized where the thoughts of the Bishop were leading him, who had doubtless understood the terror of the naked soul, the terror which he himself had made possible, switched on the light. The whole laboratory was illuminated, and it was seen that the people were looking at each other with white faces; and that the folk, who were almost strangers, were grasping each other by the wrist. And the Bishop himself was sitting quietly in the chair, with a very pale face and a slight smile.

At that moment the people who had come to catch the visual truth of this supreme wonder, rose as one man. Voices were heard laughing and sobbing; little choked voices mingled and merged in a cacophany of fear.

It was all light now, light and bright, and these men and women of the world were weeping on each other's shoulders.

The Bishop rose.

"Oh, please," he said, "please, my dears, be quiet. This is wonderful, this is inexplicable, but we have only begun. Let us see this thing through to the very, very end. Hush! Be quiet! There is no reason, nor is there any need, for hysteria or for fear."

The words of the Churchman calmed them all. They looked at him, they looked at each other with startled eyes, and once more there was a great and enduring silence.

Then Sir William spoke. His face was as pale as linen; he was not at all the person whom they had seen half-an-hour ago—but he spoke swiftly to them.

"His Lordship," he said, "has given us one instance of how the brain works, and he has enabled us to watch his marvellous memory of what he has so lately seen. And now, I will ask some one or other of you to come down here and help me."

Young Lord Landsend looked at Mrs. Hoskin-Heath and winked.

"I shall be very pleased, Sir William," he said in the foolish, staccato voice of his class and kind, "I shall be very pleased, Sir William, to think for you and all the rest of us here."

Lord Landsend stumbled down from where he sat and went towards the chair. As he did so, there were not wanting people who whispered to each other that a penny for his thoughts was an enormous price to pay. The cap was fitted on his head; they all saw it gleaming there above the small and vacuous face; and then once more the lights went out.

The great circle of white light upon the screen remained fixed and immovable. No picture formed itself or occurred within the frame of light and shadow. For nearly a minute the circle remained unsullied.

Then Mrs. Hoskin-Heath began to titter. Every one, relieved from the tension of the first experiment, joined her in her laugh. They all realized that young Lord Landsend could not think, and had not any thoughts at all. In the middle of their laughter, which grew and rose until the whole place was filled with it, the young man, doubtless spurred on by this unaccustomed derision, began to think.

And what they all saw was just this—some one they had all seen before, many times, after dinner.

They simply saw, in rather cloudy colour, Miss Popsy Wopsy, the celebrated Gaiety girl, alertly doing things of no importance, while the baton of the conductor made a moving shadow upon the chiffon of her frock.

And so here was another brain, caught up, classified and seen.