CHAPTER XIII.
In which the Subliminal Consciousness gives itself away.
The work of the Sunday had tired Professor Higginson. He did not know that glory could weary man so much.
He rose very late upon the Monday morning: he rose certainly without ambition, and almost without fear. He was dead beat. By the time he had breakfasted it was noon. He had no class on Monday. In the early afternoon he was due at the Council of the University. He remembered the agenda, more or less. He had to talk particularly about those Saturday lectures. He hated them—but first of all he must ring up his colleague Garden, who was with him in the matter.
Garden had the the telephone—sensible man! But Garden wouldn't allow his number in the book. … It was? … It was 37 something? … Wait a minute! Professor Higginson remembered a scrap of paper
