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“In what way does the neck demonstrate that point?” queried the Bibliomaniac, forgetting the conspiracy for a moment.

“By its twist or by its length, of course,” returned the Idiot. “A chicken that dies a natural death does not have its neck wrung; nor when the head is removed by the use of a hatchet, is it likely that it will be cut off so close behind the ears that those who eat the chicken are confronted with four inches of neck.”

“Very entertaining indeed,” interposed the School-master; “but we are wandering from the point the Bibliomaniac and I were discussing. Is or is not the story of Robert Elsmere unsettling to one’s beliefs? Perhaps you can help us to decide that question.”

“Perhaps I can,” returned the Idiot; “and perhaps not. It did not unsettle my beliefs.”

“But don’t you think,” observed the Bibliomaniac, “that to certain minds the book is more or less unsettling?”

“To that I can confidently say no. The certain mind knows no uncertainty,” replied the Idiot, calmly.

“Very pretty indeed,” said the School-master, coldly. “But what was your opinion of Mrs. Ward’s handling of the subject? Do you think she was sufficiently realistic? And if so, and Elsmere weakened under the stress of circumstances, do you think–or don’t you think–the production of such a book harmful, because–being real–it must of necessity be unsettling to some minds?”

“I prefer not to express an opinion on that subject,” returned the Idiot, “because I never read Robert Els –“

“Never read it?” ejaculated the School-master, a look of triumph in his eyes.

“Why, everybody has read Elsmere that pretends to have read anything,” asserted the Bibliomaniac.

“Of course,” put in the landlady, with a scornful laugh.

“Well, I didn’t,” said the Idiot, nonchalantly. “The same ground was gone over two years before in Burrows’s great story, Is It, or Is It Not? and anybody who ever read Clink’s books on the Non-Existent as Opposed to What Is, knows where Burrows got his points. Burrows’s story was a perfect marvel. I don’t know how many editions it went through in England, and when it was translated into French by Madame Tournay, it simply set the French wild.”

“Great Scott!” whispered the Bibliomaniac, desperately, “I’m afraid we’ve been barking up the wrong tree.”

“You’ve read Clink, I suppose?” asked the Idiot, turning to the School-master.

“Y–yes,” returned the School-master, blushing deeply.

The Idiot looked surprised, and tried to conceal a smile by sipping his coffee from a spoon.

“And Burrows?”

“No,” returned the School-master, humbly. “I never read Burrows.”

“Well, you ought to. It’s a great book, and it’s the one Robert Elsmere is taken from–same ideas all through, I’m told–that’s why I didn’t read Elsmere. Waste of time, you know. But you noticed yourself, I suppose, that Clink’s ground is the same as that covered in Elsmere ?”

“No; I only dipped lightly into Clink,” returned the School-master, with some embarrassment.

“But you couldn’t help noticing a similarity of ideas?” insisted the Idiot, calmly.

The School-master looked beseechingly at the Bibliomaniac, who would have been glad to fly to his co-conspirator’s assistance had he known how, but never having heard of Clink, or Burrows either, for that matter, he made up his mind that it was best for his reputation for him to stay out of the controversy.

“Very slight similarity, however,” said the School-master, in despair.

“Where can I find Clink’s books?” put in Mr. Whitechoker, very much interested.

The Idiot conveniently had his mouth full of chicken at the moment, and it was to the School-master who had also read him that they all–the landlady included–looked for an answer.

“Oh, I think,” returned that worthy, hesitatingly–“I think you’ll find Clink in any of the public libraries.”

“What is his full name?” persisted Mr. Whitechoker, taking out a memorandum-book.

“Horace J. Clink,” said the Idiot.

“Yes; that’s it–Horace J. Clink,” echoed the School-master. “Very virile writer and a clear thinker,” he added, with some nervousness.