War in Heaven by Charles Williams Read Free Book Online

so much unpleasant as dull and unnecessary; it might have got in the way of the movements of his body, but not of his mind. This was what he needed; his unsteady thought needed weighting, but with what, he asked himself, of all the shadows of obscenity that moved through the place of shadows which was the world—with which of all these could he weight it? From date-stamp to waste-paper basket, from basket to files, from files to telephone Adrian pursued his investigations; and Lionel was on the point of giving an exhibition of telephoning by ringing up Mornington, when the door opened and Gregory Persimmons appeared.
    â€œI beg your pardon,” he said, stopping on the threshold, “I really beg your pardon, Rackstraw.”
    â€œCome in, sir,” Lionel said, getting up. “It’s only my wife.”
    â€œI’ve met Mrs. Rackstraw before,” Persimmons said, shaking hands. “But not, I think, this young man.” He moved slowly in Adrian’s direction.
    â€œAdrian,” Barbara said, “come and shake hands.”
    The child politely obeyed, as Persimmons, dropping on one knee, welcomed him with a grave and detached courtesy equal to his own. But when he stood up again he kept his eyes fixed on Adrian, even while saying to Barbara, “What a delightful child!”
    â€œHe is rather a pet,” Barbara murmured. “But, of course, an awful nuisance.”
    â€œThey always are,” Persimmons said. “But they have their compensations. I’ve always been glad I had a son. Training them is a wonderful experience.”
    â€œAdrian trains himself, I’m afraid,” Barbara answered, a little embarrassed. “But we shall certainly have to begin to teach him soon.”
    â€œYes,” Gregory said, his eyes still on Adrian. “It’s a dreadful business, teaching them what’s wrong. It has to be done all the same, and he’s too fine a child to waste. I beg your pardon again—but I do think children are so wonderful, and when one meets the grown-ups one feels they’ve so often been wasted.” He smiled at Barbara. “Look at your husband; look at me!” he said. “We were babies once.”
    â€œWell,” Barbara said, smiling back, “I wouldn’t say that Lionel had been altogether wasted. Nor you, Mr. Persimmons.”
    He bowed a little, but shook his head, then turned to Lionel. “All I came for, Rackstraw,” he said, “was to say that I saw Tumulty yesterday, and he was rather anxious whether you could read a postcard he sent you about his book.”
    â€œOnly just,” Lionel answered, “but I managed. He wanted a paragraph knocked out.”
    â€œAnd you got it in time to make the correction?” Gregory asked again.
    â€œBehold the proof,” Lionel said, “ in the proof. It goes off to-night.” He held the sheet out to the other man, who took it with a word of thanks and glanced at the red-ink line. “That’s it,” he said, “the last paragraph on page 218.” He stood for a moment reading it through.
    In the room across the corridor the Archdeacon turned over page 217 and read on.
    â€œIt seems probable therefore,” the book ran, “if we consider these evidences, and the hypothetical scheme which has been adduced, not altogether unreasonably, to account for the facts which we have—a scheme which may be destroyed in the future by discovery of some further fact, but till then may not unjustifiably be considered to hold the field—it seems probable that the reputed Graal may be so far definitely traced and its wanderings followed as to permit us to say that it rests at present in the parish church of Fardles.”
    â€œDear me!” the Archdeacon said; and, “Yes, that was the paragraph,” said Mr. Gregory Persimmons; and for a moment there was silence in both offices.
    The Archdeacon was considering that he had, in