Again that tense silence fell over the company, smitten into awed stillness by Martha’s simple but astounding statement.

“But some stranger might have found out the facts about you and Loreen. How do you know—”

“No stranger could tell me things that no one but myself ever knew, Mr. Maxwell. He told me in a few words all about my real sinful life, things I have never told anyone, not even Mrs. Maxwell.”

“And you feel sure he, this person, was really Jesus?”

“I know it.”

“What impression did this person make on the other people at the meeting?”

“They all felt as I did. When you see him, Mr. Maxwell, you will feel just as I did. You cannot doubt. No one can doubt.”

Again a period of silence. The whole thing was so stupendous, if it was true, that their hearts and minds could not grasp it.

“Where is he, this person, now? Where did he go after the meeting?”

“He went home with Mr. Grey.”

“He is with Mr. Grey now?”

“I suppose so. Mr. Grey invited him to come with him, and they went away together.”

Edward Norman’s old reportorial instincts came to the front. “Call up Grey over the phone and ask him—”

“Yes, I’ll do that in a minute,” Mr. Maxwell said. “But I want to ask Martha a few more questions. Can you tell us, Martha, how he looked?”

“No, I don’t believe I can, Mr. Maxwell. He looked to me just like an average man, only different.”

“An average man, only different,” murmured Stanton. “Why should he look any other way? Why should we expect to see a face like those painted by stereotyped art, when we know well enough there is no authentic portrait of Jesus in existence?”

“That is what the world will expect to see,” said Virginia. “It has had a certain type of face presented by art for so long that it will expect to see a countenance like that painted by the old masters.”

“It is all incomprehensible to me,” said Maxwell. “But what does all that mean if Jesus is here? That is the main thing, after all.” He turned again toward Martha, as if he felt there must be something else the girl had not told, something she was keeping back without meaning to conceal any real facts. “Martha, did this person say who he was? Did he call himself Jesus?”

Martha leaned forward eagerly. “Yes. He said two or three times, ‘I am Jesus! I have come to visit the earth again. I have to comfort my disciples and help build my Kingdom.’ Like that! And it all seemed so good. Oh, I cannot express it.”

Again, as so many times that evening, a deep silence settled over the little company, as they tried to measure something immeasurable.

“And did he say anything about the length of his stay, or his plans?”

“No, I don’t remember that he did.”

“Did he say anything to the people in the meeting about not making him known?”