The Chronicles of Clovis....................................................................................................................................1

Saki (H.H. Munro)...................................................................................................................................1

``All hunting stories are the same,'' said Clovis; ``just as all Turf stories are the same, and all''

``My hunting story isn't a bit like any you've ever heard,'' said the Baroness. ``It happened quite a while ago,

when I was about twentythree. I wasn't living apart from my husband then; you see, neither of us could

afford to make the other a separate allowance. In spite of everything that proverbs may say, poverty keeps

together more homes than it breaks up. But we always hunted with different packs. All this has nothing to do

``We haven't arrived at the meet yet. I suppose there was a meet,'' said Clovis.

``Of course there was a meet,'' said the Baroness; ``all the usual crowd were there, especially Constance

Broddle. Constance is one of those strapping florid girls that go so well with autumn scenery or Christmas

decorations in church. `I feel a presentiment that something dreadful is going to happen,' she said to me; `am

`` `You're looking nicer than usual,' I said, `but that's so easy for you.' Before she had got the right bearings of

this remark we had settled down to business; hounds had found a fox lying out in some gorsebushes.''

``I knew it,'' said Clovis; ``in every foxhunting story that I've ever heard there's been a fox and some

``Constance and I were well mounted,'' continued the Baroness serenely, ``and we had no difficulty in

keeping ourselves in the first flight, though it was a fairly stiff run. Towards the finish, however, we must

have held rather too independent a line, for we lost the hounds, and found ourselves plodding aimlessly along

miles away from anywhere. It was fairly exasperating, and my temper was beginning to let itself go by

inches, when on pushing our way through an accommodating hedge we were gladdened by the sight of

`` `There they go,' cried Constance, and then added in a gasp, 'In Heaven's name, what are they hunting?'

``It was certainly no mortal fox. It stood more than twice as high, had a short, ugly head, and an enormous

``At that moment the hunted beast turned and faced its pursuers, and the hounds (there were only about six

couple of them) stood round in a halfcircle and looked foolish. Evidently they had broken away from the

rest of the pack on the trail of this alien scent, and were not quite sure how to treat their quarry now they had

``The hyaena hailed our approach with unmistakable relief and demonstrations of friendliness. It had

probably been accustomed to uniform kindness from humans, while its first experience of a pack of hounds

had left a bad impression. The hounds looked more than ever embarrassed as their quarry paraded its sudden

intimacy with us, and the faint toot of a horn in the distance was seized on as a welcome signal for

unobtrusive departure. Constance and I and the hyaena were left alone in the gathering twilight.

`` `I don't know what your ideas of comfort are,' I said; `but I shouldn't think of staying here all night even

without a hyaena. My home may be an unhappy one, but at least it has hot and cold water laid on, and

domestic service, and other conveniences which we shouldn't find here. We had better make for that ridge of

``We trotted off slowly along a faintly marked carttrack, with the beast following cheerfully at our heels.

`` `Well, neither have I. If we even knew its sex we might give it a name. Perhaps we might call it Esme'.

``There was still sufficient daylight for us to distinguish wayside objects, and our listless spirits gave an

upward perk as we came upon a small halfnaked gipsy brat picking blackberries from a lowgrowing bush.

The sudden apparition of two horsewomen and a hyaena set it off crying, and in any case we should scarcely

have gleaned any useful geographical information from that source; but there was a probability that we might

strike a gipsy encampment somewhere along our route. We rode on hopefully but uneventfully for another

`` `I don't like the way it cried,' pursued Constance; `somehow its wail keeps ringing in my ears.'

``I did not chide Constance for her morbid fancies; as a matter of fact the same sensation, of being pursued by

a persistent fretful wail, had been forcing itself on my rather overtired nerves. For company's sake I hulloed

to Esme', who had lagged somewhat behind. With a few springy bounds he drew up level, and then shot past

``The wailing accompaniment was explained. The gipsy child was firmly, and I expect painfully, held in his

`` `Merciful Heaven!' screamed Constance, `what on earth shall we do? What are we to do?'

``I am perfectly certain that at the Last Judgment Constance will ask more questions than any of the

`` `Can't we do something?' she persisted tearfully, as Esme' cantered easily along in front of our tired horses.

``Personally I was doing everything that occurred to me at the moment. I stormed and scolded and coaxed in

English and French and gamekeeper language; I made absurd, ineffectual cuts in the air with my thongless

huntingcrop; I hurled my sandwich case at the brute; in fact, I really don't know what more I could have

done. And still we lumbered on through the deepening dusk, with that dark uncouth shape lumbering ahead of

us, and a drone of lugubrious music floating in our ears. Suddenly Esme' bounded aside into some thick

bushes, where we could not follow; the wail rose to a shriek and then stopped altogether. This part of the

story I always hurry over, because it is really rather horrible. When the beast joined us again, after an absence

of a few minutes, there was an air of patient understanding about him, as though he knew that he had done

something of which we disapproved, but which he felt to be thoroughly justifiable.

`` `How can you let that ravening beast trot by your side?' asked Constance. She was looking more than ever

`` `In the first place, I can't prevent it,' I said; `and in the second place, whatever else he may be, I doubt if

``Constance shuddered. `Do you think the poor little thing suffered much?' came another of her futile

`` `The indications were all that way,' I said; `on the other hand, of course, it may have been crying from

``It was nearly pitchdark when we emerged suddenly into the high road. A flash of lights and the whir of a

motor went past us at the same moment at uncomfortably close quarters. A thud and a sharp screeching yell

followed a second later. The car drew up, and when I had ridden back to the spot I found a young man

`` `I'm so awfully sorry,' said the young man; `I keep dogs myself, so I know what you must feel about it. I'll

`` `Bring the spade, William,' he called to the chauffeur. Evidently hasty roadside interments were

``The digging of a sufficiently large grave took some little time. `I say, what a magnificent fellow,' said the

motorist as the corpse was rolled over into the trench. `I'm afraid he must have been rather a valuable animal.'

`` `He took second in the puppy class at Birmingham last year,' I said resolutely.

`` `Don't cry, dear,' I said brokenly; `it was all over in a moment. He couldn't have suffered much.'

`` `Look here,' said the young fellow desperately, `you simply must let me do something by way of

``Of course, we kept our own counsel as to the earlier episodes of the evening. Lord Pabham never advertised

the loss of his hyaena; when a strictly fruiteating animal strayed from his park a year or two previously he

was called upon to give compensation in eleven cases of sheepworrying and practically to restock his

neighbours' poultryyards, and an escaped hyaena would have mounted up to something on the scale of a

Government grant. The gipsies were equally unobtrusive over their missing offspring; I don't suppose in large

``There was a sequel to the adventure, though. I got through the post a charming little diamond broach, with

the name Esme' set in a sprig of rosemary. Incidentally, too, I lost the friendship of Constance Broddle. You

see, when I sold the brooch I quite properly refused to give her any share of the proceeds. I pointed out that

the Esme' part of the affair was my own invention, and the hyaena part of it belonged to Lord Pabham, if it

The grillroom clock struck eleven with the respectful unobtrusiveness of one whose mission in life is to be

ignored. When the flight of time should really have rendered abstinence and migration imperative the lighting

Six minutes later Clovis approached the suppertable, in the blessed expectancy of one who has dined

``I'm starving,'' he announced, making an effort to sit down gracefully and read the menu at the same time.

``So I gathered,'' said his host, ``from the fact that you were nearly punctual. I ought to have told you that I'm

a Food Reformer. I've ordered two bowls of breadandmilk and some health biscuits. I hope you don't

Clovis pretended afterwards that he didn't go white above the collarline for the fraction of a second.

``All the same,'' he said, ``you ought not to joke about such things. There really are such people. I've known

people who've met them. To think of all the adorable things there are to eat in the world, and then to go

``They're like the Flagellants of the Middle Ages, who went about mortifying themselves.''

``They had some excuse,'' said Clovis. ``They did it to save their immortal souls, didn't they? You needn't tell

me that a man who doesn't love oysters and asparagus and good wines has got a soul, or a stomach either.

Clovis relapsed for a few golden moments into tender intimacies with a succession of rapidly disappearing

``I think oysters are more beautiful than any religion,'' he resumed presently. ``They not only forgive our

unkindness to them; they justify it, they incite us to go on being perfectly horrid to them. Once they arrive at

the suppertable they seem to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the thing. There's nothing in Christianity or

Buddhism that quite matches the sympathetic unselfishness of an oyster. Do you like my new waistcoat? I'm

``It looks like a great many others you've had lately, only worse. New dinner waistcoats are becoming a habit

``They say one always pays for the excesses of one's youth; mercifully that isn't true about one's clothes. My

``Of course, you ought to know. I was under the impression that she'd been married once or twice at least.''

``Three times, to be mathematically exact. I meant that it was the first time she'd thought about getting

married; the other times she did it without thinking. As a matter of fact, it's really I who am doing the

thinking for her in this case. You see, it's quite two years since her last husband died.''

``Well, it struck me that she was getting moped, and beginning to settle down, which wouldn't suit her a bit.

The first symptom that I noticed was when she began to complain that we were living beyond our income.

All decent people live beyond their incomes nowadays, and those who aren't respectable live beyond other

``The crisis came,'' returned Clovis, ``when she suddenly started the theory that late hours were bad for one,

and wanted me to be in by one o'clock every night. Imagine that sort of thing for me, who was eighteen on

``Oh, well, that's not my fault. I'm not going to arrive at nineteen as long as my mother remains at

``That's the last thing she'd think of. Feminine reformations always start in on the failings of other people.

``Did you go as far as to select the gentleman, or did you merely throw out a general idea, and trust to the

``If one wants a thing done in a hurry one must see to it oneself. I found a military Johnny hanging round on a

loose end at the club, and took him home to lunch once or twice. He'd spent most of his life on the Indian

frontier, building roads, and relieving famines and minimizing earthquakes, and all that sort of thing that one

does do on frontiers. He could talk sense to a peevish cobra in fifteen native languages, and probably knew

what to do if you found a rogue elephant on your croquetlawn; but he was shy and diffident with women. I

told my mother privately that he was an absolute womanhater; so, of course, she laid herself out to flirt all

``I hear he told some one at the club that he was looking out for a Colonial job, with plenty of hard work, for

a young friend of his, so I gather that he has some idea of marrying into the family.''

Clovis wiped the trace of Turkish coffee and the beginnings of a smile from his lips, and slowly lowered his

It was a chill, rainwashed afternoon of a late August day, that indefinite season when partridges are still in

security or cold storage, and there is nothing to huntunless one is bounded on the north by the Bristol

Channel, in which case one may lawfully gallop after fat red stags. Lady Blemley's houseparty was not

bounded on the north by the Bristol Channel, hence there was a full gathering of her guests round the

teatable on this particular afternoon. And, in spite of the blankness of the season and the triteness of the

occasion, there was no trace in the company of that fatigued restlessness which means a dread of the pianola

and a subdued hankering for auction bridge. The undisguised openmouthed attention of the entire party was

fixed on the homely negative personality of Mr. Cornelius Appin. Of all her guests, he was the one who had

come to Lady Blemley with the vaguest reputation. Some one had said he was ``clever,'' and he had got his

invitation in the moderate expectation, on the part of his hostess, that some portion at least of his cleverness

would be contributed to the general entertainment. Until teatime that day she had been unable to discover in

what direction, if any, his cleverness lay. He was neither a wit nor a croquet champion, a hypnotic force nor a

begetter of amateur theatricals. Neither did his exterior suggest the sort of man in whom women are willing to

pardon a generous measure of mental deficiency. He had subsided into mere Mr. Appin, and the Cornelius

seemed a piece of transparent baptismal bluff. And now he was claiming to have launched on the world a

discovery beside which the invention of gunpowder, of the printingpress, and of steam locomotion were

inconsiderable trifles. Science had made bewildering strides in many directions during recent decades, but

this thing seemed to belong to the domain of miracle rather than to scientific achievement.

``And do you really ask us to believe,'' Sir Wilfrid was saying, ``that you have discovered a means for

instructing animals in the art of human speech, and that dear old Tobermory has proved your first successful

``It is a problem at which I have worked for the last seventeen years,'' said Mr. Appin, ``but only during the

last eight or nine months have I been rewarded with glimmerings of success. Of course I have experimented

with thousands of animals, but latterly only with cats, those wonderful creatures which have assimilated

themselves so marvellously with our civilization while retaining all their highly developed feral instincts.

Here and there among cats one comes across an outstanding superior intellect, just as one does among the

ruck of human beings, and when I made the acquaintance of Tobermory a week ago I saw at once that I was

in contact with a `Beyondcat' of extraordinary intelligence. I had gone far along the road to success in recent

Mr. Appin concluded his remarkable statement in a voice which he strove to divest of a triumphant inflection.

No one said ``Rats,'' though Clovis's lips moved in a monosyllabic contortion which probably invoked those

``And do you mean to say,'' asked Miss Resker, after a slight pause, ``that you have taught Tobermory to say

``My dear Miss Resker,'' said the wonderworker patiently, ``one teaches little children and savages and

backward adults in that piecemeal fashion; when one has once solved the problem of making a beginning

with an animal of highly developed intelligence one has no need for those halting methods. Tobermory can

This time Clovis very distinctly said, ``Beyondrats!'' Sir Wilfrid was more polite, but equally sceptical.

``Hadn't we better have the cat in and judge for ourselves?'' suggested Lady Blemley.

Sir Wilfrid went in search of the animal, and the company settled themselves down to the languid expectation

In a minute Sir Wilfrid was back in the room, his face white beneath its tan and his eyes dilated with

His agitation was unmistakably genuine, and his hearers started forward in a thrill of awakened interest.

Collapsing into an armchair he continued breathlessly: ``I found him dozing in the smokingroom and called

out to him to come for his tea. He blinked at me in his usual way, and I said, `Come on, Toby; don't keep us

waiting'; and, by Gad! he drawled out in a most horribly natural voice that he'd come when he dashed well

Appin had preached to absolutely incredulous hearers; Sir Wilfred's statement carried instant conviction. A

Babellike chorus of startled exclamation arose, amid which the scientist sat mutely enjoying the first fruit of

In the midst of the clamour Tobermory entered the room and made his way with velvet tread and studied

A sudden hush of awkwardness and constraint fell on the company. Somehow there seemed an element of

embarrassment in addressing on equal terms a domestic cat of acknowledged mental ability.

``Will you have some milk, Tobermory?'' asked Lady Blemley in a rather strained voice.

``I don't mind if I do,'' was the response, couched in a tone of even indifference. A shiver of suppressed

excitement went through the listeners, and Lady Blemley might be excused for pouring out the saucerful of

Another silence fell on the group, and then Miss Resker, in her best districtvisitor manner, asked if the

human language had been difficult to learn. Tobermory looked squarely at her for a moment and then fixed

his gaze serenely on the middle distance. It was obvious that boring questions lay outside his scheme of life.

``You put me in an embarrassing position,'' said Tobermory, whose tone and attitude certainly did not suggest

a shred of embarrassment. ``When your inclusion in this houseparty was suggested Sir Wilfrid protested that

you were the most brainless woman of his acquaintance, and that there was a wide distinction between

hospitality and the care of the feebleminded. Lady Blemley replied that your lack of brainpower was the

precise quality which had earned you your invitation, as you were the only person she could think of who

might be idiotic enough to buy their old car. You know, the one they call `The Envy of Sisyphus,' because it

Lady Blemley's protestations would have had greater effect if she had not casually suggested to Mavis only

that morning that the car in question would be just the thing for her down at her Devonshire home.

``How about your carryingson with the tortoiseshell puss up at the stables, eh?''

``One does not usually discuss these matters in public,'' said Tobermory frigidly. ``From a slight observation

of your ways since you've been in this house I should imagine you'd find it inconvenient if I were to shift the

``Would you like to go and see if cook has got your dinner ready?'' suggested Lady Blemley hurriedly,

affecting to ignore the fact that it wanted at least two hours to Tobermory's dinnertime.

``Thanks,'' said Tobermory, ``not quite so soon after my tea. I don't want to die of indigestion.''

``Adelaide!'' said Mrs. Cornett, ``do you mean to encourage that cat to go out and gossip about us in the

The panic had indeed become general. A narrow ornamental balustrade ran in front of most of the bedroom

windows at the Towers, and it was recalled with dismay that this had formed a favourite promenade for

Tobermory at all hours, whence he could watch the pigeonsand heaven knew what else besides. If he

intended to become reminiscent in his present outspoken strain the effect would be something more than

disconcerting. Mrs. Cornett, who spent much time at her toilet table, and whose complexion was reputed to

be of a nomadic though punctual disposition, looked as ill at ease as the Major. Miss Scrawen, who wrote

fiercely sensuous poetry and led a blameless life, merely displayed irritation; if you are methodical and

virtuous in private you don't necessarily want every one to know it. Bertie van Tahn, who was so depraved at

seventeen that he had long ago given up trying to be any worse, turned a dull shade of gardenia white, but he

did not commit the error of dashing out of the room like Odo Finsberry, a young gentleman who was

understood to be reading for the Church and who was possibly disturbed at the thought of scandals he might

hear concerning other people. Clovis had the presence of mind to maintain a composed exterior; privately he

was calculating how long it would take to procure a box of fancy mice through the agency of the Exchange

Even in a delicate situation like the present, Agnes Resker could not endure to remain too long in the

``Judging by what you said to Mrs. Cornett on the croquetlawn yesterday, you were out for food. You

described the Blemleys as the dullest people to stay with that you knew, but said they were clever enough to

employ a firstrate cook; otherwise they'd find it difficult to get any one to come down a second time.''

``There's not a word of truth in it! I appeal to Mrs. Cornett'' exclaimed the discomfited Agnes.

``Mrs. Cornett repeated your remark afterwards to Bertie van Tahn,'' continued Tobermory, ``and said, `That

woman is a regular Hunger Marcher; she'd go anywhere for four square meals a day,' and Bertie van Tahn

At this point the chronicle mercifully ceased. Tobermory had caught a glimpse of the big yellow Tom from

the Rectory working his way through the shrubbery towards the stable wing. In a flash he had vanished

With the disappearance of his too brilliant pupil Cornelius Appin found himself beset by a hurricane of bitter

upbraiding, anxious inquiry, and frightened entreaty. The responsibility for the situation lay with him, and he

must prevent matters from becoming worse. Could Tobermory impart his dangerous gift to other cats? was

the first question he had to answer. It was possible, he replied, that he might have initiated his intimate friend

the stable puss into his new accomplishment, but it was unlikely that his teaching could have taken a wider

``Then,'' said Mrs. Cornett, ``Tobermory may be a valuable cat and a great pet; but I'm sure you'll agree,

Adelaide, that both he and the stable cat must be done away with without delay.''

``You don't suppose I've enjoyed the last quarter of an hour, do you?'' said Lady Blemley bitterly. ``My

husband and I are very fond of Tobermoryat least, we were before this horrible accomplishment was

infused into him; but now, of course, the only thing is to have him destroyed as soon as possible.''

``We can put some strychnine in the scraps he always gets at dinnertime,'' said Sir Wilfrid, ``and I will go

and drown the stable cat myself. The coachman will be very sore at losing his pet, but I'll say a very catching

form of mange has broken out in both cats and we're afraid of its spreading to the kennels.''

``But my great discovery!'' expostulated Mr. Appin; ``after all my years of research and experiment''

``You can go and experiment on the shorthorns at the farm, who are under proper control,'' said Mrs.

Cornett, ``or the elephants at the Zoological Gardens. They're said to be highly intelligent, and they have this

recommendation, that they don't come creeping about our bedrooms and under chairs, and so forth.''

An archangel ecstatically proclaiming the Millennium, and then finding that it clashed unpardonably with

Henley and would have to be indefinitely postponed, could hardly have felt more crestfallen than Cornelius

Appin at the reception of his wonderful achievement. Public opinion, however, was against himin fact,

had the general voice been consulted on the subject it is probable that a strong minority vote would have been

Defective train arrangements and a nervous desire to see matters brought to a finish prevented an immediate

dispersal of the party, but dinner that evening was not a social success. Sir Wilfrid had had rather a trying

time with the stable cat and subsequently with the coachman. Agnes Resker ostentatiously limited her repast

to a morsel of dry toast, which she bit as though it were a personal enemy; while Mavis Pellington maintained

a vindictive silence throughout the meal. Lady Blemley kept up a flow of what she hoped was conversation,

but her attention was fixed on the doorway. A plateful of carefully dosed fish scraps was in readiness on the

sideboard, but sweets and savoury and dessert went their way, and no Tobermory appeared either in the

The sepulchral dinner was cheerful compared with the subsequent vigil in the smokingroom. Eating and

drinking had at least supplied a distraction and cloak to the prevailing embarrassment. Bridge was out of the

question in the general tension of nerves and tempers, and after Odo Finsberry had given a lugubrious

rendering of ``Me'lisande in the Wood'' to a frigid audience, music was tacitly avoided. At eleven the servants

went to bed, announcing that the small window in the pantry had been left open as usual for Tobermory's

private use. The guests read steadily through the current batch of magazines, and fell back gradually on the

``Badminton Library'' and bound volumes of Punch. Lady Blemley made periodic visits to the pantry,

returning each time with an expression of listless depression which forestalled questioning.

``He won't turn up tonight. He's probably in the local newspaper office at the present moment, dictating the

first instalment of his reminiscences. Lady What'shername's book won't be in it. It will be the event of the

Having made this contribution to the general cheerfulness, Clovis went to bed. At long intervals the various

The servants taking round the early tea made a uniform announcement in reply to a uniform question.

Breakfast was, if anything, a more unpleasant function than dinner had been, but before its conclusion the

situation was relieved. Tobermory's corpse was brought in from the shrubbery, where a gardener had just

discovered it. From the bites on his throat and the yellow fur which coated his claws it was evident that he

By midday most of the guests had quitted the Towers, and after lunch Lady Blemley had sufficiently

recovered her spirits to write an extremely nasty letter to the Rectory about the loss of her valuable pet.

Tobermory had been Appin's one successful pupil, and he was destined to have no successor. A few weeks

later an elephant in the Dresden Zoological Garden, which had shown no previous signs of irritability, broke

loose and killed an Englishman who had apparently been teasing it. The victim's name was variously reported

in the papers as Oppin and Eppelin, but his front name was faithfully rendered Cornelius.

``If he was trying German irregular verbs on the poor beast,'' said Clovis, ``he deserved all he got.''

It was Mrs. Packletide's pleasure and intention that she should shoot a tiger. Not that the lust to kill had

suddenly descended on her, or that she felt that she would leave India safer and more wholesome than she

had found it, with one fraction less of wild beast per million of inhabitants. The compelling motive for her

sudden deviation towards the footsteps of Nimrod was the fact that Loona Bimberton had recently been

carried eleven miles in an aeroplane by an Algerian aviator, and talked of nothing else; only a personally

procured tigerskin and a heavy harvest of Press photographs could successfully counter that sort of thing.

Mrs. Packletide had already arranged in her mind the lunch she would give at her house in Curzon Street,

ostensibly in Loona Bimberton's honour, with a tigerskin rug occupying most of the foreground and all of

the conversation. She had also already designed in her mind the tigerclaw broach that she was going to give

Loona Bimberton on her next birthday. In a world that is supposed to be chiefly swayed by hunger and by

love Mrs. Packletide was an exception; her movements and motives were largely governed by dislike of

Circumstances proved propitious. Mrs. Packletide had offered a thousand rupees for the opportunity of

shooting a tiger without overmuch risk or exertion, and it so happened that a neighbouring village could

boast of being the favoured rendezvous of an animal of respectable antecedents, which had been driven by

the increasing infirmities of age to abandon gamekilling and confine its appetite to the smaller domestic

animals. The prospect of earning the thousand rupees had stimulated the sporting and commercial instinct of

the villagers; children were posted night and day on the outskirts of the local jungle to head the tiger back in

the unlikely event of his attempting to roam away to fresh huntinggrounds, and the cheaper kinds of goats

were left about with elaborate carelessness to keep him satisfied with his present quarters. The one great

anxiety was lest he should die of old age before the date appointed for the memsahib's shoot. Mothers

carrying their babies home through the jungle after the day's work in the fields hushed their singing lest they

The great night duly arrived, moonlit and cloudless. A platform had been constructed in a comfortable and

conveniently placed tree, and thereon crouched Mrs. Packletide and her paid companion, Miss Mebbin. A

goat, gifted with a particularly persistent bleat, such as even a partially deaf tiger might be reasonably

expected to hear on a still night, was tethered at the correct distance. With an accurately sighted rifle and a

thumbnail pack of patience cards the sportswoman awaited the coming of the quarry.

She was not actually nervous about the wild beast, but she had a morbid dread of performing an atom more

``Nonsense,'' said Mrs. Packletide; ``it's a very old tiger. It couldn't spring up here even if it wanted to.''

``If it's an old tiger I think you ought to get it cheaper. A thousand rupees is a lot of money.''

Louisa Mebbin adopted a protective eldersister attitude towards money in general, irrespective of nationality

or denomination. Her energetic intervention had saved many a rouble from dissipating itself in tips in some

Moscow hotel, and francs and centimes clung to her instinctively under circumstances which would have

driven them headlong from less sympathetic hands. Her speculations as to the market depreciation of tiger

remnants were cut short by the appearance on the scene of the animal itself. As soon as it caught sight of the

tethered goat it lay flat on the earth, seemingly less from a desire to take advantage of all available cover than

``I believe it's ill,'' said Louisa Mebbin, loudly in Hindustani, for the benefit of the village headman, who was

``Hush!'' said Mrs. Packletide, and at that moment the tiger commenced ambling towards his victim.

``Now, now!'' urged Miss Mebbin with some excitement; ``if he doesn't touch the goat we needn't pay for it.''

The rifle flashed out with a loud report, and the great tawny beast sprang to one side and then rolled over in

the stillness of death. In a moment a crowd of excited natives had swarmed on to the scene, and their shouting

speedily carried the glad news to the village, where a thumping of tomtoms took up the chorus of triumph.

And their triumph and rejoicing found a ready echo in the heart of Mrs. Packletide; already that

It was Louisa Mebbin who drew attention to the fact that the goat was in deaththroes from a mortal

bulletwound, while no trace of the rifle's deadly work could be found on the tiger. Evidently the wrong

animal had been hit, and the beast of prey had succumbed to heartfailure, caused by the sudden report of the

rifle, accelerated by senile decay. Mrs. Packletide was pardonably annoyed at the discovery; but, at any rate,

she was the possessor of a dead tiger, and the villagers, anxious for their thousand rupees, gladly connived at

the fiction that she had shot the beast. And Miss Mebbin was a paid companion. Therefore did Mrs.

Packletide face the cameras with a light heart, and her pictured fame reached from the pages of the Texas

Weekly Snapshot to the illustrated Monday supplement of the Novoe Vremya. As for Loona Bimberton, she

refused to look at an illustrated paper for weeks, and her letter of thanks for the gift of a tigerclaw brooch

was a model of repressed emotions. The luncheonparty she declined; there are limits beyond which

From Curzon Street the tigerskin rug travelled down to the Manor House, and was duly inspected and

admired by the county, and it seemed a fitting and appropriate thing when Mrs. Packletide went to the County

Costume Ball in the character of Diana. She refused to fall in, however, with Clovis's tempting suggestion of

a primeval dance party, at which every one should wear the skins of beasts they had recently slain. ``I should

be in rather a Baby Bunting condition,'' confessed Clovis, ``with a miserable rabbitskin or two to wrap up in,

but then,'' he added, with a rather malicious glance at Diana's proportions, ``my figure is quite as good as that

``How amused every one would be if they knew what really happened,'' said Louisa Mebbin a few days after

``How you shot the goat and frightened the tiger to death,'' said Miss Mebbin, with her disagreeably pleasant

``No one would believe it,'' said Mrs. Packletide, her face changing colour as rapidly as though it were going

``Loona Bimberton would,'' said Miss Mebbin. Mrs. Packletide's face settled on an unbecoming shade of

``I've seen a weekend cottage near Darking that I should rather like to buy,'' said Miss Mebbin with seeming

irrelevance. ``Six hundred and eighty, freehold. Quite a bargain, only I don't happen to have the money.''

Louisa Mebbin's pretty weekend cottage, christened by her ``Les Fauves,'' and gay in summertime with its

``It would be rather nice if you would put Clovis up for another six days while I go up north to the

MacGregors','' said Mrs. Sangrail sleepily across the breakfasttable. It was her invariable plan to speak in a

sleepy, comfortable voice whenever she was unusually keen about anything; it put people off their guard, and

they frequently fell in with her wishes before they had realized that she was really asking for anything. Lady

Bastable, however, was not so easily taken unawares; possibly she knew that voice and what it betokened

She frowned at a piece of toast and ate it very slowly, as though she wished to convey the impression that the

process hurt her more than it hurt the toast; but no extension of hospitality on Clovis's behalf rose to her lips.

``It would be a great convenience to me,'' pursued Mrs. Sangrail, abandoning the careless tone. ``I particularly

``It will seem longer,'' said Lady Bastable dismally. ``The last time he stayed here for a week''

``I know,'' interrupted the other hastily, ``but that was nearly two years ago. He was younger then.''

``But he hasn't improved,'' said her hostess; ``it's no use growing older if you only learn new ways of

Mrs. Sangrail was unable to argue the point; since Clovis had reached the age of seventeen she had never

ceased to bewail his irrepressible waywardness to all her circle of acquaintances, and a polite scepticism

would have greeted the slightest hint at a prospective reformation. She discarded the fruitless effort at

``If you'll have him here for these six days I'll cancel that outstanding bridge account.''

It was only for fortynine shillings, but Lady Bastable loved shillings with a great, strong love. To lose

money at bridge and not to have to pay it was one of those rare experiences which gave the cardtable a

glamour in her eyes which it could never otherwise have possessed. Mrs. Sangrail was almost equally

devoted to her card winnings, but the prospect of conveniently warehousing her offspring for six days, and

incidentally saving his railway fare to the north, reconciled her to the sacrifice; when Clovis made a belated

``Just think,'' said Mrs. Sangrail sleepily; ``Lady Bastable has very kindly asked you to stay on here while I

Clovis said suitable things in a highly unsuitable manner, and proceeded to make punitive expeditions among

the breakfast dishes with a scowl on his face that would have driven the purr out of a peace conference. The

arrangement that had been concluded behind his back was doubly distasteful to him. In the first place, he

particularly wanted to teach the MacGregor boys, who could well afford the knowledge, how to play

pokerpatience; secondly, the Bastable catering was of the kind that is classified as a rude plenty, which

Clovis translated as a plenty that gives rise to rude remarks. Watching him from behind ostentatiously sleepy

lids, his mother realized, in the light of long experience, that any rejoicing over the success of her manoeuvre

would be distinctly premature. It was one thing to fit Clovis into a convenient niche of the domestic jigsaw

Lady Bastable was wont to retire in state to the morningroom immediately after breakfast and spend a quiet

hour in skimming through the papers; they were there, so she might as well get their money's worth out of

them. Politics did not greatly interest her, but she was obsessed with a favourite foreboding that one of these

days there would be a great social upheaval, in which everybody would be killed by everybody else. ``It will

come sooner than we think,'' she would observe darkly; a mathematical expert of exceptionally high powers

would have been puzzled to work out the approximate date from the slender and confusing groundwork

On this particular morning the sight of Lady Bastable enthroned among her papers gave Clovis the hint

towards which his mind had been groping all breakfast time. His mother had gone upstairs to supervise

packing operations, and he was alone on the groundfloor with his hostessand the servants. The latter

were the key to the situation. Bursting wildly into the kitchen quarters, Clovis screamed a frantic though

strictly noncommittal summons: ``Poor Lady Bastable! In the morningroom! Oh, quick!'' The next

moment the butler, cook, pageboy, two or three maids, and a gardener who had happened to be in one of the

outer kitchens were following in a hot scurry after Clovis as he headed back for the morningroom. Lady

Bastable was roused from the world of newspaper lore by hearing a Japanese screen in the hall go down with

a crash. Then the door leading from the ball flew open and her young guest tore madly through the room,

shrieked at her in passing, ``The jacquerie! They're on us!'' and dashed like an escaping hawk out through the

French window. The scared mob of servants burst in on his heels, the gardener still clutching the sickle with

which he had been trimming hedges, and the impetus of their headlong haste carried them, slipping and

sliding, over the smooth parquet flooring towards the chair where their mistress sat in panicstricken

amazement. If she had had a moment granted her for reflection she would have behaved, as she afterwards

explained, with considerable dignity. It was probably the sickle which decided her, but anyway she followed

the lead that Clovis had given her through the French window, and ran well and far across the lawn before the

Lost dignity is not a possession which can be restored at a moment's notice, and both Lady Bastable and the

butler found the process of returning to normal conditions almost as painful as a slow recovery from

drowning. A jacquerie, even if carried out with the most respectful of intentions, cannot fail to leave some

traces of embarrassment behind it. By lunchtime, however, decorum had reasserted itself with enhanced

rigour as a natural rebound from its recent overthrow, and the meal was served in a frigid stateliness that

might have been framed on a Byzantine model. Halfway through its duration Mrs. Sangrail was solemnly

presented with an envelope lying on a silver salver. It contained a cheque for fortynine shillings.

The MacGregor boys learned how to play pokerpatience; after all, they could afford to.

``That woman's artjargon tires me,'' said Clovis to his journalist friend. ``She's so fond of talking of certain

``That reminds me,'' said the journalist, ``of the story of Henri Deplis. Have I ever told it you?''

``Henri Deplis was by birth a native of the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg. On maturer reflection he became a

commercial traveller. His business activities frequently took him beyond the limits of the Grand Duchy, and

he was stopping in a small town of Northern Italy when news reached him from home that a legacy from a

``It was not a large legacy, even from the modest standpoint of Henri Deplis, but it impelled him towards

some seemingly harmless extravagances. In particular it led him to patronize local art as represented by the

tattooneedles of Signor Andreas Pincini. Signor Pincini was, perhaps, the most brilliant master of tattoo

craft that Italy had ever known, but his circumstances were decidedly impoverished, and for the sum of six

hundred francs he gladly undertook to cover his client's back, from the collarbone down to the waistline,

with a glowing representation of the Fall of Icarus. The design, when finally developed, was a slight

disappointment to Monsieur Deplis, who had suspected Icarus of being a fortress taken by Wallenstein in the

Thirty Years' War, but he was more than satisfied with the execution of the work, which was acclaimed by all

``It was his greatest effort, and his last. Without even waiting to be paid, the illustrious craftsman departed

this life, and was buried under an ornate tombstone, whose winged cherubs would have afforded singularly

little scope for the exercise of his favourite art. There remained, however, the widow Pincini, to whom the six

hundred francs were due. And thereupon arose the great crisis in the life of Henri Deplis, traveller of

commerce. The legacy, under the stress of numerous little calls on its substance, had dwindled to very

insignificant proportions, and when a pressing wine bill and sundry other current accounts had been paid,

there remained little more than 430 francs to offer to the widow. The lady was properly indignant, not wholly,

as she volubly explained, on account of the suggested writingoff of 170 francs, but also at the attempt to

depreciate the value of her late husband's acknowledged masterpiece. In a week's time Deplis was obliged to

reduce his offer to 405 francs, which circumstance fanned the widow's indignation into a fury. She cancelled

the sale of the work of art, and a few days later Deplis learned with a sense of consternation that she bad

presented it to the municipality of Bergamo, which had gratefully accepted it. He left the neighbourhood as

unobtrusively as possible, and was genuinely relieved when his business commands took him to Rome,

where he hoped his identity and that of the famous picture might be lost sight of.

``But he bore on his back the burden of the dead man's genius. On presenting himself one day in the steaming

corridor of a vapour bath, he was at once hustled back into his clothes by the proprietor, who was a North

Italian, and who emphatically refused to allow the celebrated Fall of Icarus to be publicly on view without the

permission of the municipality of Bergamo. Public interest and official vigilance increased as the matter

became more widely known, and Deplis was unable to take a simple dip in the sea or river on the hottest

afternoon unless clothed up to the collarbone in a substantial bathing garment. Later on the authorities of

Bergamo conceived the idea that salt water might be injurious to the masterpiece, and a perpetual injunction

was obtained which debarred the muchly harassed commercial traveller from sea bathing under any

circumstances. Altogether, he was fervently thankful when his firm of employers found him a new range of

activities in the neighbourhood of Bordeaux. His thankfulness, however, ceased abruptly at the

FrancoItalian frontier. An imposing array of official force barred his departure, and he was sternly reminded

A diplomatic parley ensued between the Luxemburgian and Italian Governments, and at one time the

European situation became overcast with the possibilities of trouble. But the Italian Government stood firm;

it declined to concern itself in the least with the fortunes or even the existence of Henri Deplis, commercial

traveller, but was immovable in its decision that the Fall of Icarus (by the late Pincini, Andreas) at present the

``The excitement died down in time, but the unfortunate Deplis, who was of a constitutionally retiring

disposition, found himself a few months later once more the stormcentre of a furious controversy. A certain

German art expert, who had obtained from the municipality of Bergamo permission to inspect the famous

masterpiece, declared it to be a spurious Pincini, probably the work of some pupil whom he had employed in

his declining years. The evidence of Deplis on the subject was obviously worthless, as he had been under the

influence of the customary narcotics during the long process of pricking in the design. The editor of an Italian

art journal refuted the contentions of the German expert and undertook to prove that his private life did not

conform to any modern standard of decency. The whole of Italy and Germany were drawn into the dispute,

and the rest of Europe was soon involved in the quarrel. There were stormy scenes in the Spanish Parliament,

and the University of Copenhagen bestowed a gold medal on the German expert (afterwards sending a

commission to examine his proofs on the spot), while two Polish schoolboys in Paris committed suicide to

``Meanwhile, the unhappy human background fared no better than before, and it was not surprising that he

drifted into the ranks of Italian anarchists. Four times at least he was escorted to the frontier as a dangerous

and undesirable foreigner, but he was always brought back as the Fall of Icarus (attributed to Pincini,

Andreas, early Twentieth Century). And then one day, at an anarchist congress at Genoa, a fellowworker, in

the heat of debate, broke a phial full of corrosive liquid over his back. The red shirt that he was wearing

mitigated the effects, but the Icarus was ruined beyond recognition. His assailant was severely reprimanded

for assaulting a fellowanarchist and received seven years' imprisonment for defacing a national art treasure.

As soon as he was able to leave the hospital Henri Deplis was put across the frontier as an undesirable alien.

``In the quieter streets of Paris, especially in the neighbourhood of the Ministry of Fine Arts, you may

sometimes meet a depressed, anxiouslooking man, who, if you pass him the time of day, will answer you

with a slight Luxemburgian accent. He nurses the illusion that he is one of the lost arms of the Venus de

Milo, and hopes that the French Government may be persuaded to buy him. On all other subjects I believe he

It was in the second decade of the Twentieth Century, after the Great Plague had devastated England, that

Hermann the Irascible, nicknamed also the Wise, sat on the British throne. The Mortal Sickness had swept

away the entire Royal Family, unto the third and fourth generations, and thus it came to pass that Hermann

the Fourteenth of SaxeDrachsenWachtelstein, who had stood thirtieth in the order of succession, found

himself one day ruler of the British dominions within and beyond the seas. He was one of the unexpected

things that happen in polities, and he happened with great thoroughness. In many ways he was the most

progressive monarch who had sat on an important throne; before people knew where they were, they were

somewhere else. Even his Ministers, progressive though they were by tradition, found it difficult to keep pace

``As a matter of fact,'' admitted the Prime Minister, ``we are hampered by these votesforwomen creatures;

they disturb our meetings throughout the country, and they try to turn Downing Street into a sort of political

``I will draft you a Bill,'' said the King, sitting down at his typewriting machine, ``enacting that women shall

vote at all future elections. Shall vote, you observe; or, to put it plainer, must. Voting will remain optional, as

before, for male electors; but every woman between the ages of twentyone and seventy will be obliged to

vote, not only at elections for Parliament, county councils, district boards, parishcouncils, and

municipalities, but for coroners, school inspectors, churchwardens, curators of museums, sanitary authorities,

policecourt interpreters, swimmingbath instructors, contractors, choirmasters, market superintendents,

artschool teachers, cathedral vergers, and other local functionaries whose names I will add as they occur to

me. All these offices will become elective, and failure to vote at any election falling within her area of

residence will involve the female elector in a penalty of L10. Absence, unsupported by an adequate medical

certificate, will not be accepted as an excuse. Pass this Bill through the two Houses of Parliament and bring it

From the very outset the Compulsory Female Franchise produced little or no elation even in circles which

had been loudest in demanding the vote. The bulk of the women of the country had been indifferent or hostile

to the franchise agitation, and the most fanatical Suffragettes began to wonder what they had found so

attractive in the prospect of putting ballotpapers into a box. In the country districts the task of carrying out

the provisions of the new Act was irksome enough; in the towns and cities it became an incubus. There

seemed no end to the elections. Laundresses and seamstresses had to hurry away from their work to vote,

often for a candidate whose name they hadn't heard before, and whom they selected at haphazard; female

clerks and waitresses got up extra early to get their voting done before starting off to their places of business.

Society women found their arrangements impeded and upset by the continual necessity for attending the

polling stations, and weekend parties and summer holidays became gradually a masculine luxury. As for

Cairo and the Riviera, they were possible only for genuine invalids or people of enormous wealth, for the

accumulation of L10 fines during a prolonged absence was a contingency that even ordinarily wealthy folk

It was not wonderful that the female disfranchisement agitation became a formidable movement. The

NoVotesforWomen League numbered its feminine adherents by the million; its colours, citron and old

Dutchmadder, were flaunted everywhere, and its battle hymn, ``We Don't Want to Vote,'' became a popular

refrain. As the Government showed no signs of being impressed by peaceful persuasion, more violent

methods came into vogue. Meetings were disturbed, Ministers were mobbed, policemen were bitten, and

ordinary prison fare rejected, and on the eve of the anniversary of Trafalgar women bound themselves in tiers

up the entire length of the Nelson column so that its customary floral decoration had to be abandoned. Still

the Government obstinately adhered to its conviction that women ought to have the vote.

Then, as a last resort, some woman wit hit upon an expedient which it was strange that no one had thought of

before. The Great Weep was organized. Relays of women, ten thousand at a time, wept continuously in the

public places of the Metropolis. They wept in railway stations, in tubes and omnibuses, in the National

Gallery, at the Army and Navy Stores, in St. James's Park, at ballad concerts, at Prince's and in the Burlington

Arcade. The hitherto unbroken success of the brilliant farcical comedy ``Henry's Rabbit'' was imperilled by

the presence of drearily weeping women in stalls and circle and gallery, and one of the brightest divorce cases

that had been tried for many years was robbed of much of its sparkle by the lachrymose behaviour of a

``What are we to do?'' asked the Prime Minister, whose cook had wept into all the breakfast dishes and whose

nursemaid had gone out, crying quietly and miserably, to take the children for a walk in the Park.

``There is a time for everything,'' said the King; ``there is a time to yield. Pass a measure through the two

Houses depriving women of the right to vote, and bring it to me for the Royal assent the day after tomorrow.''

As the Minister withdrew, Hermann the Irascible, who was also nicknamed the Wise, gave a profound

``There are more ways of killing a cat than by choking it with cream,'' he quoted, ``but I'm not sure,'' he added

On the rack in the railway carriage immediately opposite Clovis was a solidly wrought travelling bag, with a

carefully written label, on which was inscribed, ``J. P. Huddle, The Warren, Tilfield, near Slowborough.''

Immediately below the rack sat the human embodiment of the label, a solid, sedate individual, sedately

dressed, sedately conversational. Even without his conversation (which was addressed to a friend seated by

his side, and touched chiefly on such topics as the backwardness of Roman hyacinths and the prevalence of

measles at the Rectory), one could have gauged fairly accurately the temperament and mental outlook of the

travelling bag's owner. But he seemed unwilling to leave anything to the imagination of a casual observer,

``I don't know how it is,'' he told his friend, ``I'm not much over forty, but I seem to have settled down into a

deep groove of elderly middleage. My sister shows the same tendency. We like everything to be exactly in

its accustomed place; we like things to happen exactly at their appointed times; we like everything to be

usual, orderly, punctual, methodical, to a hair's breadth, to a minute. It distresses and upsets us if it is not so.

For instance, to take a very trifling matter, a thrush has built its nest year after year in the catkintree on the

lawn; this year, for no obvious reason, it is building in the ivy on the garden wall. We have said very little

about it, but I think we both feel that the change is unnecessary, and just a little irritating.''

``We have suspected that,'' said J. P. Huddle, ``and I think it gives us even more cause for annoyance. We

don't feel that we want a change of thrush at our time of life; and yet, as I have said, we have scarcely reached

``You've heard of Restcures for people who've broken down under stress of too much worry and strenuous

living; well, you're suffering from overmuch repose and placidity, and you need the opposite kind of

``Well, you might stand as an Orange candidate for Kilkenny, or do a course of district visiting in one of the

Apache quarters of Paris, or give lectures in Berlin to prove that most of Wagner's music was written by

Gambetta; and there's always the interior of Morocco to travel in. But, to be really effective, the Unrestcure

ought to be tried in the home. How you would do it I haven't the faintest idea.''

It was at this point in the conversation that Clovis became galvanized into alert attention. After all, his two

days' visit to an elderly relative at Slowborough did not promise much excitement. Before the train had

stopped he had decorated his sinister shirtcuff with the inscription, ``J. P. Huddle, The Warren, Tilfield, near

Two mornings later Mr. Huddle broke in on his sister's privacy as she sat reading Country Life in the

morning room. It was her day and hour and place for reading Country Life, and the intrusion was absolutely

irregular; but he bore in his hand a telegram, and in that household telegrams were recognized as happening

by the hand of God. This particular telegram partook of the nature of a thunderbolt. ``Bishop examining

confirmation class in neighbourhood unable stay rectory on account measles invokes your hospitality sending

``I scarcely know the Bishop; I've only spoken to him once,'' exclaimed J. P. Huddle, with the exculpating air

of one who realizes too late the indiscretion of speaking to strange Bishops. Miss Huddle was the first to

rally; she disliked thunderbolts as fervently as her brother did, but the womanly instinct in her told her that

``We can curry the cold duck,'' she said. It was not the appointed day for curry, but the little orange envelope

involved a certain departure from rule and custom. Her brother said nothing, but his eyes thanked her for

``The secretary!'' murmured the Huddles in unison; they instantly stiffened into a demeanour which

proclaimed that, though they held all strangers to be guilty, they were willing to hear anything they might

have to say in their defence. The young gentleman, who came into the room with a certain elegant

haughtiness, was not at all Huddle's idea of a bishop's secretary; he had not supposed that the episcopal

establishment could have afforded such an expensively upholstered article when there were so many other

claims on its resources. The face was fleetingly familiar; if he had bestowed more attention on the

fellowtraveller sitting opposite him in the railway carriage two days before he might have recognized Clovis

``You are the Bishop's secretary?'' asked Huddle, becoming consciously deferential.

``His confidential secretary,'' answered Clovis. ``You may call me Stanislaus; my other name doesn't matter.

The Bishop and Colonel Alberti may be here to lunch. I shall be here in any case.''

``The Bishop is examining a confirmation class in the neighbourhood, isn't he?'' asked Miss Huddle.

``Ostensibly,'' was the dark reply, followed by a request for a largescale map of the locality.

Clovis was still immersed in a seemingly profound study of the map when another telegram arrived. It was

addressed to ``Prince Stanislaus, care of Huddle, The Warren, etc.'' Clovis glanced at the contents and

announced: ``The Bishop and Alberti won't be here till late in the afternoon.'' Then he returned to his scrutiny

The luncheon was not a very festive function. The princely secretary ate and drank with fair appetite, but

severely discouraged conversation. At the finish of the meal he broke suddenly into a radiant smile, thanked

his hostess for a charming repast, and kissed her hand with deferential rapture. Miss Huddle was unable to

decide in her mind whether the action savoured of Louis Quatorzian courtliness or the reprehensible Roman

attitude towards the Sabine women. It was not her day for having a headache, but she felt that the

circumstances excused her, and retired to her room to have as much headache as was possible before the

Bishop's arrival. Clovis, having asked the way to the nearest telegraph office, disappeared presently down the

carriage drive. Mr. Huddle met him in the hall some two hours later, and asked when the Bishop would

``No one knows he is here,'' said Clovis; ``the quieter we can keep matters the better. And on no account

``But what is all this mystery about? And who is Alberti? And isn't the Bishop going to have tea?''

``Blood!'' gasped Huddle, who did not find that the thunderbolt improved on acquaintance.

``Tonight is going to be a great night in the history of Christendom,'' said Clovis. ``We are going to massacre

``To massacre the Jews!'' said Huddle indignantly. ``Do you mean to tell me there's a general rising against

``No, it's the Bishop's own idea. He's in there arranging all the details now.''

``That is precisely what will heighten the effect of his action. The sensation will be enormous.''

``A motor is waiting to carry him to the coast, where a steam yacht is in readiness.''

``But there aren't thirty Jews in the whole neighbourhood,'' protested Huddle, whose brain, under the repeated

shocks of the day, was operating with the uncertainty of a telegraph wire during earthquake disturbances.

``We have twentysix on our list,'' said Clovis, referring to a bundle of notes. ``We shall be able to deal with

``Do you mean to tell me that you are meditating violence against a man like Sir Leon Birberry,'' stammered

``He's down on our list,'' said Clovis carelessly; ``after all, we've got men we can trust to do our job, so we

shan't have to rely on local assistance. And we've got some Boyscouts helping us as auxiliaries.''

``Yes; when they understood there was real killing to be done they were even keener than the men.''

``And your house will be the blottingpad. Have you realized that half the papers of Europe and the United

States will publish pictures of it? By the way, I've sent some photographs of you and your sister, that I found

in the library, to the Matin and Die Woche; I hope you don't mind. Also a sketch of the staircase; most of the

The emotions that were surging in J. P. Huddle's brain were almost too intense to be disclosed in speech, but

``In the shrubbery,'' said Clovis, ``are posted ten men, who have orders to fire on any one who leaves the

house without my signal of permission. Another armed picquet is in ambush near the front gate. The

At this moment the cheerful hoot of a motorhorn was heard from the drive. Huddle rushed to the hall door

with the feeling of a man halfawakened from a nightmare, and beheld Sir Leon Birberry, who had driven

``Come here at once. Urgent. James Huddle,'' was the purport of the message displayed before Huddle's

``I see it all!'' he exclaimed suddenly in a voice shaken with agitation, and with a look of agony in the

direction of the shrubbery he hauled the astonished Birberry into the house. Tea had just been laid in the hall,

but the now thoroughly panicstricken Huddle dragged his protesting guest upstairs, and in a few minutes'

time the entire household had been summoned to that region of momentary safety. Clovis alone graced the

teatable with his presence; the fanatics in the library were evidently too immersed in their monstrous

machinations to dally with the solace of teacup and hot toast. Once the youth rose, in answer to the summons

of the frontdoor bell, and admitted Mr. Paul Isaacs, shoemaker and parish councillor, who had also received

a pressing invitation to The Warren. With an atrocious assumption of courtesy, which a Borgia could hardly

have outdone, the secretary escorted this new captive of his net to the head of the stairway, where his

And then ensued a long ghastly vigil of watching and waiting. Once or twice Clovis left the house to stroll

across to the shrubbery, returning always to the library, for the purpose evidently of making a brief report.

Once he took in the letters from the evening postman, and brought them to the top of the stairs with

punctilious politeness. After his next absence he came halfway up the stairs to make an announcement.

``The Boyscouts mistook my signal, and have killed the postman. I've had very little practice in this sort of

The housemaid, who was engaged to be married to the evening postman, gave way to clamorous grief.

``Remember that your mistress has a headache,'' said J. P. Huddle. (Miss Huddle's headache was worse.)

Clovis hastened downstairs, and after a short visit to the library returned with another message:

``The Bishop is sorry to hear that Miss Huddle has a headache. He is issuing orders that as far as possible no

firearms shall be used near the house; any killing that is necessary on the premises will be done with cold

steel. The Bishop does not see why a man should not be a gentleman as well as a Christian.''

That was the last they saw of Clovis; it was nearly seven o'clock, and his elderly relative liked him to dress

for dinner. But, though he had left them for ever, the lurking suggestion of his presence haunted the lower

regions of the house during the long hours of the wakeful night, and every creak of the stairway, every rustle

of wind through the shrubbery, was fraught with horrible meaning. At about seven next morning the

gardener's boy and the early postman finally convinced the watchers that the Twentieth Century was still

``I don't suppose,'' mused Clovis, as an early train bore him townwards, ``that they will be in the least grateful

Arlington Stringham made a joke in the House of Commons. It was a thin House, and a very thin joke;

something about the AngloSaxon race having a great many angles. It is possible that it was unintentional,

but a fellowmember, who did not wish it to be supposed that he was asleep because his eyes were shut,

laughed. One or two of the papers noted ``a laugh'' in brackets, and another, which was notorious for the

carelessness of its political news, mentioned ``laughter.'' Things often begin in that way.

``Arlington made a joke in the House last night,'' said Eleanor Stringham to her mother; ``in all the years

we've been married neither of us has made jokes, and I don't like it now. I'm afraid it's the beginning of the

To say that anything was a quotation was an excellent method, in Eleanor's eyes, for withdrawing it from

discussion, just as you could always defend indifferent lamb late in the season by saying ``It's mutton.''

And, of course, Arlington Stringham continued to tread the thorny path of conscious humour into which Fate

``The country's looking very green, but, after all, that's what it's there for,'' he remarked to his wife two days

``That's very modern, and I daresay very clever, but I'm afraid it's wasted on me,'' she observed coldly. If she

had known how much effort it had cost him to make the remark she might have greeted it in a kinder spirit. It

Arlington said nothing, not from injured pride, but because he was thinking hard for something to say.

Eleanor mistook his silence for an assumption of tolerant superiority, and her anger prompted her to a further

``You had better tell it to Lady Isobel. I've no doubt she would appreciate it.''

Lady Isobel was seen everywhere with a fawncoloured collie at a time when every one else kept nothing but

Pekinese, and she had once eaten four green apples at an afternoon tea in the Botanical Gardens, so she was

widely credited with a rather unpleasant wit. The censorious said she slept in a hammock and understood

``The rift is widening to an abyss,'' said Eleanor to her mother that afternoon.

``I should not tell that to any one,'' remarked her mother, after long reflection.

``Naturally, I should not talk about it very much,'' said Eleanor, ``but why shouldn't I mention it to any one?''

Eleanor's outlook on life did not improve as the afternoon wore on. The pageboy had brought from the

library By Mere and Wold instead of By Mere Chance, the book which every one denied having read. The

unwelcome substitute appeared to be a collection of nature notes contributed by the author to the pages of

some Northern weekly, and when one had been prepared to plunge with disapproving mind into a regrettable

chronicle of illspent lives it was intensely irritating to read ``the dainty yellowhammers are now with us,

and flaunt their jaundiced livery from every bush and hillock.'' Besides, the thing was so obviously untrue;

either there must be hardly any bushes or hillocks in those parts or the country must be fearfully overstocked

with yellowhammers. The thing scarcely seemed worth telling such a lie about. And the pageboy stood

there, with his sleekly brushed and parted hair, and his air of chaste and callous indifference to the desires and

passions of the world. Eleanor hated boys, and she would have liked to have whipped this one long and often.

She turned at random to another paragraph. ``Lie quietly concealed in the fern and bramble in the gap by the

old rowan tree, and you may see, almost every evening during early summer, a pair of lesser whitethroats

creeping up and down the nettles and hedgegrowth that mask their nestingplace.''

The insufferable monotony of the proposed recreation! Eleanor would not have watched the most brilliant

performance at His Majesty's Theatre for a single evening under such uncomfortable circumstances, and to be

asked to watch lesser whitethroats creeping up and down a nettle ``almost every evening'' during the height of

the season struck her as an imputation on her intelligence that was positively offensive. Impatiently she

transferred her attention to the dinner menu, which the boy had thoughtfully brought in as an alternative to

the more solid literary fare. ``Rabbit curry,'' met her eye, and the lines of disapproval deepened on her already

puckered brow. The cook was a great believer in the influence of environment, and nourished an obstinate

conviction that if you brought rabbit and currypowder together in one dish a rabbit curry would be the

result. And Clovis and the odious Bertie van Tahn were coming to dinner. Surely, thought Eleanor, if

Arlington knew how much she had had that day to try her, he would refrain from jokemaking.

At dinner that night it was Eleanor herself who mentioned the name of a certain statesman, who may be

It was a useful remark to have on hand, because it applied equally well to four prominent statesmen of the

``It's a mercy that they haven't,'' said Clovis; ``they would be always losing them, and people like my aunt

would get up missions to meringues, and say it was wonderful how much one could teach them and how

``I wish cook would learn to make curry, or have the sense to leave it alone,'' said Arlington, suddenly and

Eleanor's face softened. It was like one of his old remarks in the days when there was no abyss between them.

It was during the debate on the Foreign Office vote that Stringham made his great remark that ``the people of

Crete unfortunately make more history than they can consume locally.'' It was not brilliant, but it came in the

middle of a dull speech, and the House was quite pleased with it. Old gentlemen with bad memories said it

It was Eleanor's friend, Gertrude Ilpton, who drew her attention to Arlington's newest outbreak. Eleanor in

``Of course it's clever,'' said Gertrude; ``all Lady Isobel's sayings are clever, and luckily they bear repeating.''

``So that is where he gets his humour,'' said Eleanor slowly, and the hard lines deepened round her mouth.

The death of Eleanor Stringham from an overdose of chloral, occurring at the end of a rather uneventful

season, excited a certain amount of unobtrusive speculation. Clovis, who perhaps exaggerated the importance

And of course Arlington never knew. It was the tragedy of his life that he should miss the fullest effect of his

Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not

live another five years. The doctor was silky and effete, and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed

by Mrs. De Ropp, who counted for nearly everything. Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin's cousin and guardian,

and in his eyes she represented those threefifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real;

the other twofifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his

imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of

wearisome necessary thingssuch as illnesses and coddling restrictions and drawnout dulness. Without

his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.

Mrs. De Ropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to herself that she disliked Conradin,

though she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him ``for his good'' was a duty which she did not find

particularly irksome. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly able to mask. Such

few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an added relish from the likelihood that they would be

displeasing to his guardian, and from the realm of his imagination she was locked outan unclean thing,

In the dull, cheerless garden, overlooked by so many windows that were ready to open with a message not to

do this or that, or a reminder that medicines were due, he found little attraction. The few fruittrees that it

contained were set jealously apart from his plucking, as though they were rare specimens of their kind

blooming in an arid waste; it would probably have been difficult to find a marketgardener who would have

offered ten shillings for their entire yearly produce. In a forgotten corner, however, almost hidden behind a

dismal shrubbery, was a disused toolshed of respectable proportions, and within its walls Conradin found a

haven, something that took on the varying aspects of a playroom and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a

legion of familiar phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from his own brain, but it

also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood. In one corner lived a raggedplumaged Houdan hen, on which

the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet. Further back in the gloom stood a large hutch,

divided into two compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars. This was the abode of a large

polecatferret, which a friendly butcherboy had once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in

exchange for a longsecreted hoard of small silver. Conradin was dreadfully afraid of the lithe, sharpfanged

beast, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very presence in the toolshed was a secret and fearful joy,

to be kept scrupulously from the knowledge of the Woman, as he privately dubbed his cousin. And one day,

out of Heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into

a god and a religion. The Woman indulged in religion once a week at a church near by, and took Conradin

with her, but to him the church service was an alien rite in the House of Rimmon. Every Thursday, in the dim

and musty silence of the toolshed, he worshipped with mystic and elaborate ceremonial before the wooden

hutch where dwelt Sredni Vashtar, the great ferret. Red flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the

wintertime were offered at his shrine, for he was a god who laid some special stress on the fierce impatient

side of things, as opposed to the Woman's religion, which, as far as Conradin could observe, went to great

lengths in the contrary direction. And on great festivals powdered nutmeg was strewn in front of his hutch, an

important feature of the offering being that the nutmeg had to be stolen. These festivals were of irregular

occurrence, and were chiefly appointed to celebrate some passing event. On one occasion, when Mrs. De

Ropp suffered from acute toothache for three days, Conradin kept up the festival during the entire three days,

and almost succeeded in persuading himself that Sredni Vashtar was personally responsible for the toothache.

If the malady had lasted for another day the supply of nutmeg would have given out.

The Houdan hen was never drawn into the cult of Sredni Vashtar. Conradin had long ago settled that she was

an Anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the remotest knowledge as to what an Anabaptist was, but he

privately hoped that it was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. De Ropp was the ground plan on which he

After a while Conradin's absorption in the toolshed began to attract the notice of his guardian. ``It is not

good for him to be pottering down there in all weathers,'' she promptly decided, and at breakfast one morning

she announced that the Houdan hen had been sold and taken away overnight. With her shortsighted eyes she

peered at Conradin, waiting for an outbreak of rage and sorrow, which she was ready to rebuke with a flow of

excellent precepts and reasoning. But Conradin said nothing: there was nothing to be said. Something

perhaps in his white set face gave her a momentary qualm, for at tea that afternoon there was toast on the

table, a delicacy which she usually banned on the ground that it was bad for him; also because the making of

``I thought you liked toast,'' she exclaimed, with an injured air, observing that he did not touch it.

In the shed that evening there was an innovation in the worship of the hutchgod. Conradin had been wont to

The thing was not specified. As Sredni Vashtar was a god he must be supposed to know. And choking back a

sob as he looked at that other empty comer, Conradin went back to the world he so hated.

And every night, in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening in the dusk of the toolshed,

Mrs. De Ropp noticed that the visits to the shed did not cease, and one day she made a further journey of

``What are you keeping in that locked hutch?'' she asked. ``I believe it's guineapigs. I'll have them all

Conradin shut his lips tight, but the Woman ransacked his bedroom till she found the carefully hidden key,

and forthwith marched down to the shed to complete her discovery. It was a cold afternoon, and Conradin

had been bidden to keep to the house. From the furthest window of the diningroom the door of the shed

could just be seen beyond the corner of the shrubbery, and there Conradin stationed himself. He saw the

Woman enter, and then be imagined her opening the door of the sacred hutch and peering down with her

shortsighted eyes into the thick straw bed where his god lay hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw in

her clumsy impatience. And Conradin fervently breathed his prayer for the last time. But he knew as he

prayed that he did not believe. He knew that the Woman would come out presently with that pursed smile he

loathed so well on her face, and that in an hour or two the gardener would carry away his wonderful god, a

god no longer, but a simple brown ferret in a hutch. And he knew that the Woman would triumph always as

she triumphed now, and that he would grow ever more sickly under her pestering and domineering and

superior wisdom, till one day nothing would matter much more with him, and the doctor would be proved

right. And in the sting and misery of his defeat, he began to chant loudly and defiantly the hymn of his

Sredni Vashtar went forth, His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white. His enemies called for

And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the windowpane. The door of the shed still

stood ajar as it had been left, and the minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but they slipped by

nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in little parties across the lawn; he counted them

over and over again, with one eye always on that swinging door. A sourfaced maid came in to lay the table

for tea, and still Conradin stood and waited and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his heart, and now a

look of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known the wistful patience of defeat. Under his

breath, with a furtive exultation, he began once again the paean of victory and devastation. And presently his

eyes were rewarded: out through that doorway came a long, low, yellowandbrown beast, with eyes ablink

at the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat. Conradin dropped on his knees.

The great polecatferret made its way down to a small brook at the foot of the garden, drank for a moment,

then crossed a little plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes. Such was the passing of Sredni Vashtar.

``Tea is ready,'' said the sourfaced maid; ``where is the mistress?'' ``She went down to the shed some time

ago,'' said Conradin. And while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished a toastingfork

out of the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread. And during the toasting of it and

the buttering of it with much butter and the slow enjoyment of eating it, Conradin listened to the noises and

silences which fell in quick spasms beyond the diningroom door. The loud foolish screaming of the maid,

the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen region, the scuttering footsteps and hurried

embassies for outside help, and then, after a lull, the scared sobbings and the shuffling tread of those who

``Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn't for the life of me!'' exclaimed a shrill voice. And while

they debated the matter among themselves, Conradin made himself another piece of toast.

His baptismal register spoke of him pessimistically as John Henry, but he had left that behind with the other

maladies of infancy, and his friends knew him under the frontname of Adrian. His mother lived in Bethnal

Green, which was not altogether his fault; one can discourage too much history in one's family, but one

cannot always prevent geography. And, after all, the Bethnal Green habit has this virtuethat it is seldom

transmitted to the next generation. Adrian lived in a roomlet which came under the auspicious constellation of

How he lived was to a great extent a mystery even to himself; his struggle for existence probably coincided in

many material details with the rather dramatic accounts he gave of it to sympathetic acquaintances. All that is

definitely known is that he now and then emerged from the struggle to dine at the Ritz or Carlton, correctly

garbed and with a correctly critical appetite. On these occasions he was usually the guest of Lucas Croyden,

an amiable worldling, who had three thousand a year and a taste for introducing impossible people to

irreproachable cookery. Like most men who combine three thousand a year with an uncertain digestion,

Lucas was a Socialist, and he argued that you cannot hope to elevate the masses until you have brought

plovers' eggs into their lives and taught them to appreciate the difference between coupe Jacques and

Mace'doine de fruits. His friends pointed out that it was a doubtful kindness to initiate a boy from behind a

drapery counter into the blessedness of the higher catering, to which Lucas invariably replied that all

It was after one of his Adrian evenings that Lucas met his aunt, Mrs. Mebberley, at a fashionable teashop,

where the lamp of family life is still kept burning and you meet relatives who might otherwise have slipped

``Who was that goodlooking boy who was dining with you last night?'' she asked. ``He looked much too

``Who are his people?'' she continued, when the prote'ge''s name (revised version) had been given her.

Lucas checked himself on the threshold of what was perhaps a social indiscretion.

``Beth? Where is it? It sounds like Asia Minor. Is she mixed up with Consular people?''

``I see,'' said Mrs. Mebberley, ``mission work of some sort. And meanwhile the boy has no one to look after

him. It's obviously my duty to see that he doesn't come to harm. Bring him to call on me.''

``My dear Aunt Susan,'' expostulated Lucas, ``I really know very little about him. He may not be at all nice,

``He has delightful hair and a weak mouth. I shall take him with me to Homburg or Cairo.''

``Well, there is a strong strain of madness in our family. If you haven't noticed it yourself all your friends

``One is so dreadfully under everybody's eyes at Homburg. At least you might give him a preliminary trial at

``And be surrounded by Americans trying to talk French? No, thank you. I love Americans, but not when

they try to talk French. What a blessing it is that they never try to talk English. Tomorrow at five you can

And Lucas, realizing that Susan Mebberley was a woman as well as an aunt, saw that she would have to be

Adrian was duly carried abroad under the Mebberley wing; but as a reluctant concession to sanity Homburg

and other inconveniently fashionable resorts were given a wide berth, and the Mebberley establishment

planted itself down in the best hotel at Dohledorf, an Alpine townlet somewhere at the back of the Engadine.

It was the usual kind of resort, with the usual type of visitors, that one finds over the greater part of

Switzerland during the summer season, but to Adrian it was all unusual. The mountain air, the certainty of

regular and abundant meals, and in particular the social atmosphere, affected him much as the

indiscriminating fervour of a forcinghouse might affect a weed that had strayed within its limits. He had

been brought up in a world where breakages were regarded as crimes and expiated as such; it was something

new and altogether exhilarating to find that you were considered rather amusing if you smashed things in the

right manner and at the recognized hours. Susan Mebberley had expressed the intention of showing Adrian a

bit of the world; the particular bit of the world represented by Dohledorf began to be shown a good deal of

Lucas got occasional glimpses of the Alpine sojourn, not from his aunt or Adrian, but from the industrious

pen of Clovis, who was also moving as a satellite in the Mebberley constellation.

``The entertainment which Susan got up last night ended in disaster. I thought it would. The Grobmayer

child, a particularly loathsome fiveyearold, had appeared as `Bubbles' during the early part of the evening,

and been put to bed during the interval. Adrian watched his opportunity and kidnapped it when the nurse was

downstairs, and introduced it during the second half of the entertainment, thinly disguised as a performing

pig. It certainly looked very like a pig, and grunted and slobbered just like the real article; no one knew

exactly what it was, but every one said it was awfully clever, especially the Grobmayers. At the third curtain

Adrian pinched it too hard, and it yelled `Marmar'! I am supposed to be good at descriptions, but don't ask me

to describe the sayings and doings of the Grobmayers at that moment; it was like one of the angrier Psalms

Clovis's next letter arrived five days later, and was written from the Hotel Steinbock.

``We left the Hotel Victoria this morning. It was fairly comfortable and quietat least there was an air of

repose about it when we arrived. Before we had been in residence twentyfour hours most of the repose had

vanished `like a dutiful bream,' as Adrian expressed it. However, nothing unduly outrageous happened till last

night, when Adrian had a fit of insomnia and amused himself by unscrewing and transposing all the bedroom

numbers on his floor. He transferred the bathroom label to the adjoining bedroom door, which happened to be

that of Frau Hofrath Schilling, and this morning from seven o'clock onwards the old lady had a stream of

involuntary visitors; she was too horrified and scandalized it seems to get up and lock her door. The

wouldbe bathers flew back in confusion to their rooms, and, of course, the change of numbers led them

astray again, and the corridor gradually filled with panicstricken, scantily robed humans, dashing wildly

about like rabbits in a ferretinfested warren. It took nearly an hour before the guests were all sorted into

their respective rooms, and the Frau Hofrath's condition was still causing some anxiety when we left. Susan is

beginning to look a little worried. She can't very well turn the boy adrift, as he hasn't got any money, and she

can't send him to his people as she doesn't know where they are. Adrian says his mother moves about a good

deal and he's lost her address. Probably, if the truth were known, he's had a row at home. So many boys

nowadays seem to think that quarrelling with one's family is a recognized occupation.''

Lucas's next communication from the travellers took the form of a telegram from Mrs. Mebberley herself. It

was sent ``reply prepaid,'' and consisted of a single sentence: ``In Heaven's name, where is Beth?''

A strange stillness hung over the restaurant; it was one of those rare moments when the orchestra was not

``Did I ever tell you,'' asked Clovis of his friend, ``the tragedy of music at mealtimes?

``It was a gala evening at the Grand Sybaris Hotel, and a special dinner was being served in the Amethyst

dininghall. The Amethyst dininghall had almost a European reputation, especially with that section of

Europe which is historically identified with the Jordan Valley. Its cooking was beyond reproach, and its

orchestra was sufficiently highly salaried to be above criticism. Thither came in shoals the intensely musical

and the almost intensely musical, who are very many, and in still greater numbers the merely musical, who

know how Tschaikowsky's name is pronounced and can recognize several of Chopin's nocturnes if you give

them due warning; these eat in the nervous, detached manner of roebuck feeding in the open, and keep

anxious ears cocked towards the orchestra for the first hint of a recognizable melody.

`` `Ah, yes, Pagliacci,' they murmur, as the opening strains follow hot upon the soup, and if no contradiction

is forthcoming from any betterinformed quarter they break forth into subdued humming by way of

supplementing the efforts of the musicians. Sometimes the melody starts on level terms with the soup, in

which case the banqueters contrive somehow to hum between the spoonfuls; the facial expression of

enthusiasts who are punctuating potage St. Germain with Pagliacci is not beautiful, but it should be seen by

those who are bent on observing all sides of life. One cannot discount the unpleasant things of this world

``In addition to the aforementioned types the restaurant was patronized by a fair sprinkling of the absolutely

nonmusical; their presence in the dininghall could only be explained on the supposition that they had come

``The earlier stages of the dinner had worn off. The wine lists had been consulted, by some with the blank

embarrassment of a schoolboy suddenly called on to locate a Minor Prophet in the tangled hinterland of the

Old Testament, by others with the severe scrutiny which suggests that they have visited most of the

higherpriced wines in their own homes and probed their family weaknesses. The diners who chose their

wine in the latter fashion always gave their orders in a penetrating voice, with a plentiful garnishing of stage

directions. By insisting on having your bottle pointing to the north when the cork is being drawn, and calling

the waiter Max, you may induce an impression on your guests which hours of laboured boasting might be

powerless to achieve. For this purpose, however, the guests must be chosen as carefully as the wine.

``Standing aside from the revellers in the shadow of a massive pillar was an interested spectator who was

assuredly of the feast, and yet not in it. Monsieur Aristide Saucourt was the chef of the Grand Sybaris Hotel,

and if he had an equal in his profession he had never acknowledged the fact. In his own domain he was a

potentate, hedged around with the cold brutality that Genius expects rather than excuses in her children; he

never forgave, and those who served him were careful that there should be little to forgive. In the outer world,

the world which devoured his creations, he was an influence; how profound or how shallow an influence he

never attempted to guess. It is the penalty and the safeguard of genius that it computes itself by troy weight in

Once in a way the great man would be seized with a desire to watch the effect of his masterefforts, just as

the guiding brain of Krupp's might wish at a supreme moment to intrude into the firing line of an artillery

duel. And such an occasion was the present. For the first time in the history of the Grand Sybaris Hotel, he

was presenting to its guests the dish which he had brought to that pitch of perfection which almost amounts to

scandal. Canetons a` la mode d'Ambl`eve. In thin gilt lettering on the creamy white of the menu how little

those words conveyed to the bulk of the imperfectly educated diners. And yet how much specialized effort

had been lavished, how much carefully treasured lore had been ungarnered, before those six words could be

written. In the Department of DeuxSe`vres ducklings had lived peculiar and beautiful lives and died in the

odour of satiety to furnish the main theme of the dish; champignons, which even a purist for Saxon English

would have hesitated to address as mushrooms, had contributed their languorous atrophied bodies to the

garnishing, and a sauce devised in the twilight reign of the Fifteenth Louis had been summoned back from the

imperishable past to take its part in the wonderful confection. Thus far had human effort laboured to achieve

the desired result; the rest had been left to human geniusthe genius of Aristide Saucourt.

``And now the moment had arrived for the serving of the great dish, the dish which worldweary Grand

Dukes and marketobsessed money magnates counted among their happiest memories. And at the same

moment something else happened. The leader of the highly salaried orchestra placed his violin caressingly

``They knew it was `The Chaplet' because they had heard it played at luncheon and afternoon tea, and at

`` `Yes, he is playing ``The Chaplet,'' ' they reassured one another. The general voice was unanimous on the

subject. The orchestra had already played it eleven times that day, four times by desire and seven times from

force of habit, but the familiar strains were greeted with the rapture due to a revelation. A murmur of much

humming rose from half the tables in the room, and some of the more overwrought listeners laid down knife

and fork in order to be able to burst in with loud clappings at the earliest permissible moment.

``And the Canetons `a la mode d'Amble`ve? In stupefied, sickened wonder Aristide watched them grow cold

in total neglect, or suffer the almost worse indignity of perfunctory pecking and listless munching while the

banqueters lavished their approval and applause on the musicmakers. Calves' liver and bacon, with parsley

sauce, could hardly have figured more ignominiously in the evening's entertainment. And while the master of

culinary art leaned back against the sheltering pillar, choking with a horrible brainsearing rage that could

find no outlet for its agony, the orchestra leader was bowing his acknowledgments of the handclappings that

rose in a storm around him. Turning to his colleagues he nodded the signal for an encore. But before the

violin had been lifted anew into position there came from the shadow of the pillar an explosive negative.

``The musician turned in furious astonishment. Had he taken warning from the look in the other man's eyes

he might have acted differently. But the admiring plaudits were ringing in his ears, and he snarled out

`` `Noh! You play thot never again,' shouted the chef, and the next moment he had flung himself violently

upon the loathed being who had supplanted him in the world's esteem. A large metal tureen, filled to the brim

with steaming soup, had just been placed on a side table in readiness for a late party of diners; before the

waiting staff or the guests had time to realize what was happening, Aristide had dragged his struggling victim

up to the table and plunged his head deep down into the almost boiling contents of the tureen. At the further

end of the room the diners were still spasmodically applauding in view of an encore.

``Whether the leader of the orchestra died from drowning by soup, or from the shock to his professional

vanity, or was scalded to death, the doctors were never wholly able to agree. Monsieur Aristide Saucourt,

An unwonted peace hung over the Villa Elsinore, broken, however, at frequent intervals, by clamorous

lamentations suggestive of bewildered bereavement. The Momebys had lost their infant child; hence the

peace which its absence entailed; they were looking for it in wild, undisciplined fashion, giving tongue the

whole time, which accounted for the outcry which swept through house and garden whenever they returned to

try the home coverts anew. Clovis, who was temporarily and unwillingly a paying guest at the villa, had been

dozing in a hammock at the far end of the garden when Mrs. Momeby had broken the news to him.

``Do you mean that it's dead, or stampeded, or that you staked it at cards and lost it that way?'' asked Clovis

``He was toddling about quite happily on the lawn,'' said Mrs. Momeby tearfully, ``and Arnold had just come

``I hope he said hollandaise,'' interrupted Clovis, with a show of quickened interest, ``because if there's

``And all of a sudden I missed Baby,'' continued Mrs. Momeby in a shriller tone. ``We've hunted high and

``Is he anywhere to be heard?'' asked Clovis; ``if not, he must be at least two miles away.''

``There aren't eagles and wild beasts in Surrey,'' said Mrs. Momeby, but a note of horror had crept into her

``They escape now and then from travelling shows. Sometimes I think they let them get loose for the sake of

the advertisement. Think what a sensational headline it would make in the local papers: `Infant son of

prominent Nonconformist devoured by spotted hyaena.' Your husband isn't a prominent Nonconformist, but

his mother came of Wesleyan stock, and you must allow the newspapers some latitude.''

``If the hyaena was really hungry and not merely toying with his food there wouldn't be much in the way of

remains. It would be like the smallboyandapple storythere ain't going to be no core.''

Mrs. Momeby turned away hastily to seek comfort and counsel in some other direction. With the selfish

absorption of young motherhood she entirely disregarded Clovis's obvious anxiety about the asparagus sauce.

Before she had gone a yard, however, the click of the side gate caused her to pull up sharp. Miss Gilpet, from

the Villa Peterhof, had come over to hear details of the bereavement. Clovis was already rather bored with the

story, but Mrs. Momeby was equipped with that merciless faculty which finds as much joy in the ninetieth

``There are so many things to complain of in this household that it would never have occurred to me to

``He was complaining of rheumatism,'' continued Mrs. Momeby, trying to throw a chilling inflection into a

voice that was already doing a good deal of sobbing and talking at high pressure as well.

``There is no such thing as rheumatism,'' said Miss Gilpet. She said it with the conscious air of defiance that a

waiter adopts in announcing that the cheapestpriced claret in the winelist is no more. She did not proceed,

however, to offer the alternative of some more expensive malady, but denied the existence of them all.

``He has disappeared,'' conceded Miss Gilpet, ``but only because you haven't sufficient faith to find him. It's

only lack of faith on your part that prevents him from being restored to you safe and well.''

``But if he's been eaten in the meantime by a hyaena and partly digested,'' said Clovis, who clung

affectionately to his wild beast theory, ``surely some illeffects would be noticeable?''

``The hyaena may be equally certain that it has. You see, it may have just as much faith as you have, and

Mrs. Momeby was in tears again. ``If you have faith,'' she sobbed, struck by a happy inspiration, ``won't you

RoseMarie Gilpet was thoroughly sincere in her adherence to Christian Science principles; whether she

understood or correctly expounded them the learned in such manners may best decide. In the present case she

was undoubtedly confronted with a great opportunity, and as she started forth on her vague search she

strenuously summoned to her aid every scrap of faith that she possessed. She passed out into the bare and

open high road, followed by Mrs. Momeby's warning, ``It's no use going there, we've searched there a dozen

times.'' But RoseMarie's ears were already deaf to all things save selfcongratulation; for sitting in the

middle of the highway, playing contentedly with the dust and some faded buttercups, was a whitepinafored

baby with a mop of towcoloured hair tied over one temple with a paleblue ribbon. Taking first the usual

feminine precaution of looking to see that no motorcar was on the distant horizon, RoseMarie dashed at

the child and bore it, despite its vigorous opposition, in through the portals of Elsinore. The child's furious

screams had already announced the fact of its discovery, and the almost hysterical parents raced down the

lawn to meet their restored offspring. The aesthetic value of the scene was marred in some degree by

RoseMarie's difficulty in holding the struggling infant, which was borne wrongend foremost towards the

agitated bosom of its family. ``Our own little Erik come back to us,'' cried the Momebys in unison; as the

child had rammed its fists tightly into its eyesockets and nothing could be seen of its face but a widely

``Is he glad to get back to Daddy and Mummy again?'' crooned Mrs. Momeby; the preference which the child

was showing for, its dust and buttercup distractions was so marked that the question struck Clovis as being

``Give him a ride on the rolypoly,'' suggested the father brilliantly, as the howls continued with no sign of

early abatement. In a moment the child had been placed astride the big garden roller and a preliminary tug

was given to set it in motion. From the hollow depths of the cylinder came an earsplitting roar, drowning

even the vocal efforts of the squalling baby, and immediately afterwards there crept forth a whitepinafored

infant with a mop of towcoloured hair tied over one temple with a pale blue ribbon. There was no mistaking

``Our own little Erik,'' screamed Mrs. Momeby, pouncing on him and nearly smothering him with kisses;

This was the obvious explanation of the child's sudden disappearance and equally abrupt discovery. There

remained, however, the problem of the interloping baby, which now sat whimpering on the lawn in a

disfavour as chilling as its previous popularity had been unwelcome. The Momebys glared at it as though it

had wormed its way into their shortlived affections by heartless and unworthy pretences. Miss Gilpet's face

took on an ashen tinge as she stared helplessly at the bunchedup figure that had been such a gladsome sight

``When love is over, how little of love even the lover understands,'' quoted Clovis to himself.

``Obviously,'' said Clovis, ``it's a duplicate Erik that your powers of faith called into being. The question is:

The ashen pallor deepened in RoseMarie's cheeks. Mrs. Momeby clutched the genuine Erik closer to her

side, as though she feared that her uncanny neighbour might out of sheer pique turn him into a bowl of

``You can't take him back and leave him there,'' said Clovis; ``the highway is meant for traffic, not to be used

RoseMarie wept. The proverb ``Weep and you weep alone,'' broke down as badly on application as most of

its kind. Both babies were wailing lugubriously, and the parent Momebys had scarcely recovered from their

earlier lachrymose condition. Clovis alone maintained an unruffled cheerfulness.

``Not always,'' said Clovis consolingly; ``he can go into the Navy when he's thirteen.'' RoseMarie wept

``Of course,'' added Clovis, ``there may be no end of a bother about his birth certificate. You'll have to

It was rather a relief when a breathless nursemaid from the Villa Charlottenburg over the way came running

across the lawn to claim little Percy, who had slipped out of the front gate and disappeared like a twinkling

And even then Clovis found it necessary to go in person to the kitchen to make sure about the asparagus

The Gra:fin's two elder sons had made deplorable marriages. It was, observed Clovis, a family habit. The

youngest boy, Wratislav, who was the black sheep of a rather greyish family, had as yet made no marriage at

``There is certainly this much to be said for viciousness,'' said the Gra:fin, ``it keeps boys out of mischief.''

``Does it?'' asked the Baroness Sophie, not by way of questioning the statement, but with a painstaking effort

to talk intelligently. It was the one matter in which she attempted to override the decrees of Providence,

``I don't know why I shouldn't talk cleverly,'' she would complain; ``my mother was considered a brilliant

``That seems so unjust,'' said Sophie; ``one doesn't object to one's mother having outshone one as a clever

talker, but I must admit that I should be rather annoyed if my daughters talked brilliantly.''

``I don't know about that,'' said the Baroness, promptly veering round in defence of her offspring. ``Elsa said

something quite clever on Thursday about the Triple Alliance. Something about it being like a paper

umbrella, that was all right as long as you didn't take it out in the rain. It's not every one who could say that.''

``Every one has said it; at least every one that I know. But then I know very few people.''

``I never am. Haven't you noticed that women with a really perfect profile like mine are seldom even

``It would be surprising if it wasn't. My mother was one of the most noted classical beauties of her day.''

``These things sometimes skip a generation, you know,'' put in the Baroness, with the breathless haste of one

``My dear Sophie,'' said the Gra:fin sweetly, ``that isn't in the least bit clever; but you do try so hard that I

suppose I oughtn't to discourage you. Tell me something: has it ever occurred to you that Elsa would do very

``Not financially, or I shouldn't have suggested the match. But she's getting on, you know, and has no

``That shows my generosity. But, seriously, I don't see what there is against Wratislav. He has no debtsat

``Probably threequarters of them are. But what of it? You don't want an archangel for a soninlaw.''

``A little misery wouldn't matter very much with her; it would go so well with the way she does her hair, and

if she couldn't get on with Wratislav she could always go and do good among the poor.''

``He certainly is very handsome,'' she said doubtfully; adding even more doubtfully, ``I dare say dear Elsa

Three weeks later the Gra:fin bore down upon the Baroness Sophie in a foreign bookseller's shop in the

Graben, where she was, possibly, buying books of devotion, though it was the wrong counter for them.

``I've just left the dear children at the Rodenstahls','' was the Gra:fin's greeting.

``Wratislav was wearing some new English clothes, so, of course, he was quite happy. I overheard him telling

Toni a rather amusing story about a nun and a mousetrap, which won't bear repetition. Elsa was telling every

one else a witticism about the Triple Alliance being like a paper umbrellawhich seems to bear repetition

``To be candid, Elsa looked as if she were wrapped up in a horserug. And why let her wear saffron colour?''

``Unfortunately it doesn't. It stays with it. Ugh. Don't forget, you're lunching with me on Thursday.''

``Such a thing as that no one in our family has ever done,'' gasped the Baroness.

``Perhaps he didn't appeal to them in the same way'' suggested the Gra:fin judicially.

The Baroness began to feel that she was not getting the astonishment and sympathy to which her catastrophe

``She couldn't in any case,'' said the Griffin; ``he left suddenly for abroad last night.''

``My dear Sophie, he hasn't. It's other people's consciences that send one abroad in a hurry. Let's go and eat.''

It was distinctly hard lines for Lady Barbara, who came of good fighting stock, and was one of the bravest

women of her generation, that her son should be so undisguisedly a coward. Whatever good qualities Lester

Slaggby may have possessed, and he was in some respects charming, courage could certainly never be

imputed to him. As a child he had suffered from childish timidity, as a boy from unboyish funk, and as a

youth he had exchanged unreasoning fears for others which were more formidable from the fact of having a

carefullythoughtout basis. He was frankly afraid of animals, nervous with firearms, and never crossed the

Channel without mentally comparing the numerical proportion of life belts to passengers. On horseback he

seemed to require as many hands as a Hindu god, at least four for clutching the reins, and two more for

patting the horse soothingly on the neck. Lady Barbara no longer pretended not to see her son's prevailing

weakness; with her usual courage she faced the knowledge of it squarely, and, motherlike, loved him none

Continental travel, anywhere away from the great tourist tracks, was a favoured hobby with Lady Barbara,

and Lester joined her as often as possible. Eastertide usually found her at Knobaltheim, an upland township in

one of those small princedoms that make inconspicuous freckles on the map of Central Europe.

A longstanding acquaintanceship with the reigning family made her a personage of due importance in the

eyes of her old friend the Burgomaster, and she was anxiously consulted by that worthy on the momentous

occasion when the Prince made known his intention of coming in person to open a sanatorium outside the

town. All the usual items in a programme of welcome, some of them fatuous and commonplace, others quaint

and charming, had been arranged for, but the Burgomaster hoped that the resourceful English lady might

have something new and tasteful to suggest in the way of loyal greeting. The Prince was known to the outside

world, if at all, as an oldfashioned reactionary, combating modern progress, as it were, with a wooden

sword; to his own people he was known as a kindly old gentleman with a certain endearing stateliness which

had nothing of standoffishness about it. Knobaltheim was anxious to do its best. Lady Barbara discussed the

matter with Lester and one or two acquaintances in her little hotel, but ideas were difficult to come by.

``Might I suggest something to the gna:dige Frau?'' asked a sallow highcheekboned lady to whom the

Englishwoman had spoken once or twice, and whom she had set down in her mind as probably a Southern

``Might I suggest something for the Reception Fest?'' she went on, with a certain shy eagerness. ``Our little

child here, our baby, we will dress him in little white coat, with small wings, as an Easter angel, and he will

carry a large white Easter egg, and inside shall be a basket of plover eggs, of which the Prince is so fond, and

he shall give it to his Highness as Easter offering. It is so pretty an idea; we have seen it done once in Styria.''

Lady Barbara looked dubiously at the proposed Easter angel, a fair, woodenfaced child of about four years

old. She had noticed it the day before in the hotel, and wondered rather how such a towheaded child could

belong to such a darkvisaged couple as the woman and her husband; probably, she thought, an adopted

``Of course Gna:dige Frau will escort the little child up to the Prince,'' pursued the woman; ``but he will be

The small child and Lady Barbara seemed equally unenthusiastic about the pretty idea; Lester was openly

discouraging, but when the Burgomaster heard of it he was enchanted. The combination of sentiment and

On the eventful day the Easter angel, really quite prettily and quaintly dressed, was a centre of kindly interest

to the gala crowd marshalled to receive his Highness. The mother was unobtrusive and less fussy than most

parents would have been under the circumstances, merely stipulating that she should place the Easter egg

herself in the arms that had been carefully schooled how to hold the precious burden. Then Lady Barbara

moved forward, the child marching stolidly and with grim determination at her side. It had been promised

cakes and sweeties galore if it gave the egg well and truly to the kind old gentleman who was waiting to

receive it. Lester had tried to convey to it privately that horrible smackings would attend any failure in its

share of the proceedings, but it is doubtful if his German caused more than an immediate distress. Lady

Barbara had thoughtfully provided herself with an emergency supply of chocolate sweetmeats; children may

sometimes be timeservers, but they do not encourage long accounts. As they approached nearer to the

princely dais Lady Barbara stood discreetly aside, and the stolidfaced infant walked forward alone, with

staggering but steadfast gait. encouraged by a murmur of elderly approval. Lester, standing in the front row

of the onlookers, turned to scan the crowd for the beaming faces of the happy parents. In a sideroad which

led to the railway station he saw a cab; entering the cab with every appearance of furtive haste were the

darkvisaged couple who had been so plausibly eager for the ``pretty idea.'' The sharpened instinct of

cowardice lit up the situation to him in one swift flash. The blood roared and surged to his head as though

thousands of floodgates had been opened in his veins and arteries, and his brain was the common sluice in

which all the torrents met. He saw nothing but a blur around him. Then the blood ebbed away in quick waves,

till his very heart seemed drained and empty, and he stood nervelessly, helplessly, dumbly watching the child,

bearing its accursed burden with slow, relentless steps nearer and nearer to the group that waited sheeplike

to receive him. A fascinated curiosity compelled Lester to turn his head towards the fugitives; the cab had

The next moment Lester was running, running faster than any of those present had ever seen a man run,

andhe was not running away. For that stray fraction of his life some unwonted impulse beset him, some

hint of the stock he came from, and he ran unflinchingly towards danger. He stooped and clutched at the

Easter egg as one tries to scoop up the ball in Rugby football. What he meant to do with it he had not

considered, the thing was to get it. But the child had been promised cakes and sweetmeats if it safely gave the

egg into the hands of the kindly old gentleman; it uttered no scream but it held to its charge with limpet grip.

Lester sank to his knees, tugging savagely at the tightly clasped burden, and angry cries rose from the

scandalized onlookers. A questioning, threatening ring formed round him, then shrank back in recoil as he

shrieked out one hideous word. Lady Barbara heard the word and saw the crowd race away like scattered

sheep, saw the Prince forcibly hustled away by his attendants; also she saw her son lying prone in an agony of

overmastering terror, his spasm of daring shattered by the child's unexpected resistance, still clutching

frantically, as though for safety, at that whitesatin gewgaw, unable to crawl even from its deadly

neighbourhood, able only to scream and scream and scream. In her brain she was dimly conscious of

balancing, or striving to balance, the abject shame which had him now in thrall against the one compelling act

of courage which had flung him grandly and madly on to the point of danger. It was only for the fraction of a

minute that she stood watching the two entangled figures, the infant with its woodenly obstinate face and

body tense with dogged resistance, and the boy limp and already nearly dead with a terror that almost stifled

his screams; and over them the long gala streamers flapping gaily in the sunshine. She never forgot the scene;

Lady Barbara carries her scarred face with its sightless eyes as bravely as ever in the world, but at Eastertide

her friends are careful to keep from her ears any mention of the children's Easter symbol.

``I want to marry your daughter,'' said Mark Spayley with faltering eagerness. ``I am only an artist with an

income of two hundred a year, and she is the daughter of an enormously wealthy man, so I suppose you will

Duncan Dullamy, the great company inflator, showed no outward sign of displeasure. As a matter of fact, he

was secretly relieved at the prospect of finding even a twohundredayear husband for his daughter

Leonore. A crisis was rapidly rushing upon him, from which he knew he would emerge with neither money

nor credit; all his recent ventures had fallen flat, and flattest of all had gone the wonderful new breakfast

food, Pipenta, on the advertisement of which he had sunk such huge sums. It could scarcely be called a drug

``Would you marry Leonore if she were a poor man's daughter?'' asked the man of phantom wealth.

``Yes,'' said Mark, wisely avoiding the error of overprotestation. And to his astonishment Leonore's father

``I wish I could show my gratitude in some way,'' said Mark with genuine emotion. ``I'm afraid it's rather like

``Get people to buy that beastly muck,'' said Dullamy, nodding savagely at a poster of the despised Pipenta,

``and you'll have done more than any of my agents have been able to accomplish.''

``It wants a better name,'' said Mark reflectively, ``and something distinctive in the poster line. Anyway, I'll

Three weeks later the world was advised of the coming of a new breakfast food, heralded under the

resounding name of ``Filboid Studge.'' Spayley put forth no pictures of massive babies springing up with

funguslike rapidity under its forcing influence, or of representatives of the leading nations of the world

scrambling with fatuous eagerness for its possession. One huge sombre poster depicted the Damned in Hell

suffering a new torment from their inability to get at the Filboid Studge which elegant young fiends held in

transparent bowls just beyond their reach. The scene was rendered even more gruesome by a subtle

suggestion of the features of leading men and women of the day in the portrayal of the Lost Souls; prominent

individuals of both political parties, Society hostesses, wellknown dramatic authors and novelists, and

distinguished aeroplanists were dimly recognizable in that doomed throng; noted lights of the

musicalcomedy stage flickered wanly in the shades of the Inferno, smiling still from force of habit, but with

the fearsome smiling rage of baffled effort. The poster bore no fulsome allusions to the merits of the new

breakfast food, but a single grim statement ran in bold letters along its base: ``They cannot buy it now.''

Spayley had grasped the fact that people will do things from a sense of duty which they would never attempt

as a pleasure. There are thousands of respectable middleclass men who, if you found them unexpectedly in a

Turkish bath, would explain in all sincerity that a doctor had ordered them to take Turkish baths; if you told

them in return that you went there because you liked it, they would stare in pained wonder at the frivolity of

your motive. In the same way, whenever a massacre of Armenians is reported from Asia Minor, every one

assumes that it has been carried out ``under orders'' from somewhere or another; no one seems to think that

And so it was with the new breakfast food. No one would have eaten Filboid Studge as a pleasure, but the

grim austerity of its advertisement drove housewives in shoals to the grocers' shops to clamour for an

immediate supply. In small kitchens solemn pigtailed daughters helped depressed mothers to perform the

primitive ritual of its preparation. On the breakfasttables of cheerless parlours it was partaken of in silence.

Once the womenfolk discovered that it was thoroughly unpalatable, their zeal in forcing it on their

households knew no bounds. ``You haven't eaten your Filboid Studge!'' would be screamed at the appetiteless

clerk as he turned weariedly from the breakfasttable, and his evening meal would be prefaced by a

warmedup mess which would be explained as ``your Filboid Studge that you didn't eat this morning.'' Those

strange fanatics who ostentatiously mortify themselves, inwardly and outwardly, with health biscuits and

health garments, battened aggressively on the new food. Earnest spectacled young men devoured it on the

steps of the National Liberal Club. A bishop who did not believe in a future state preached against the poster,

and a peer's daughter died from eating too much of the compound. A further advertisement was obtained

when an infantry regiment mutinied and shot its officers rather than eat the nauseous mess; fortunately, Lord

Birrell of Blatherstone, who was War Minister at the moment, saved the situation by his happy epigram, that

Filboid Studge had become a household word, but Dullamy wisely realized that it was not necessarily the last

word in breakfast dietary; its supremacy would be challenged as soon as some yet more unpalatable food

should be put on the market. There might even be a reaction in favour of something tasty and appetizing, and

the Puritan austerity of the moment might be banished from domestic cookery. At an opportune moment,

therefore, he sold out his interests in the article which had brought him in colossal wealth at a critical

juncture, and placed his financial reputation beyond the reach of cavil. As for Leonore, who was now an

heiress on a far greater scale than ever before, he naturally found her something a vast deal higher in the

husband market than a twohundredayear poster designer. Mark Spayley, the brainmouse who had helped

the financial lion with such untoward effect, was left to curse the day he produced the wonderworking

``After all,'' said Clovis, meeting him shortly afterwards at his club, ``you have this doubtful consolation, that

Sylvia Seltoun ate her breakfast in the morningroom at Yessney with a pleasant sense of ultimate victory,

such as a fervent Ironside might have permitted himself on the morrow of Worcester fight. She was scarcely

pugnacious by temperament, but belonged to that more successful class of fighters who are pugnacious by

circumstance. Fate had willed that her life should be occupied with a series of small struggles, usually with

the odds slightly against her, and usually she had just managed to come through winning. And now she felt

that she had brought her hardest and certainly her most important struggle to a successful issue. To have

married Mortimer Seltoun, ``Dead Mortimer'' as his more intimate enemies called him, in the teeth of the cold

hostility of his family, and in spite of his unaffected indifference to women, was indeed an achievement that

had needed some determination and adroitness to carry through; yesterday she had brought her victory to its

concluding stage by wrenching her husband away from Town and its group of satellite wateringplaces and

``settling him down,'' in the vocabulary of her kind, in this remote woodgirt manor farm which was his

``You will never get Mortimer to go,'' his mother had said carpingly, ``but if he once goes he'll stay; Yessney

throws almost as much a spell over him as Town does. One can understand what holds him to Town, but

There was a sombre almost savage wildness about Yessney that was certainly not likely to appeal to

townbred tastes, and Sylvia, notwithstanding her name, was accustomed to nothing much more sylvan than

``leafy Kensington.'' She looked on the country as something excellent and wholesome in its way, which was

apt to become troublesome if you encouraged it overmuch. Distrust of townlife had been a new thing with

her, born of her marriage with Mortimer, and she had watched with satisfaction the gradual fading of what

she called ``the JermynStreetlook'' in his eyes as the woods and heather of Yessney had closed in on them

yesternight. Her willpower and strategy had prevailed; Mortimer would stay. Outside the morningroom

windows was a triangular slope of turf, which the indulgent might call a lawn, and beyond its low hedge of

neglected fuschia bushes a steeper slope of heather and bracken dropped down into cavernous combes

overgrown with oak and yew. In its wild open savagery there seemed a stealthy linking of the joy of life with

the terror of unseen things. Sylvia smiled complacently as she gazed with a SchoolofArt appreciation at

``It is very wild,'' she said to Mortimer, who had joined her; ``one could almost think that in such a place the

``The worship of Pan never has died out,'' said Mortimer. ``Other newer gods have drawn aside his votaries

from time to time, but he is the NatureGod to whom all must come back at last. He has been called the

Sylvia was religious in an honest, vaguely devotional kind of way, and did not like to hear her beliefs spoken

of as mere aftergrowths, but it was at least something new and hopeful to hear Dead Mortimer speak with

``I've been a fool in most things,'' said Mortimer quietly, ``but I'm not such a fool as not to believe in Pan

when I'm down here. And if you're wise you won't disbelieve in him too boastfully while you're in his

It was not till a week later, when Sylvia had exhausted the attractions of the woodland walks round Yessney,

that she ventured on a tour of inspection of the farm buildings. A farmyard suggested in her mind a scene of

cheerful bustle, with churns and flails and smiling dairymaids, and teams of horses drinking kneedeep in

duckcrowded ponds. As she wandered among the gaunt grey buildings of Yessney manor farm her first

impression was one of crushing stillness and desolation, as though she had happened on some lone deserted

homestead long given over to owls and cobwebs; then came a sense of furtive watchful hostility, the same

shadow of unseen things that seemed to lurk in the wooded combes and coppices. From behind heavy doors

and shuttered windows came the restless stamp of hoof or rasp of chain halter, and at times a muffled bellow

from some stalled beast. From a distant comer a shaggy dog watched her with intent unfriendly eyes; as she

drew near it slipped quietly into its kennel, and slipped out again as noiselessly when she had passed by. A

few hens, questing for food under a rick, stole away under a gate at her approach. Sylvia felt that if she had

come across any human beings in this wilderness of barn and byre they would have fled wraithlike from her

gaze. At last, turning a corner quickly, she came upon a living thing that did not fly from her. Astretch in a

pool of mud was an enormous sow, gigantic beyond the townwoman's wildest computation of swineflesh,

and speedily alert to resent and if necessary repel the unwonted intrusion. It was Sylvia's turn to make an

unobtrusive retreat. As she threaded her way past rickyards and cowsheds and long blank walls, she started

suddenly at a strange soundthe echo of a boy's laughter, golden and equivocal. Jan, the only boy

employed on the farm, a towheaded, wizenfaced yokel, was visibly at work on a potato clearing halfway

up the nearest hillside, and Mortimer, when questioned, knew of no other probable or possible begetter of

the hidden mockery that had ambushed Sylvia's retreat. The memory of that untraceable echo was added to

her other impressions of a furtive sinister ``something'' that hung around Yessney.

Of Mortimer she saw very little; farm and woods and trout streams seemed to swallow him up from dawn

till dusk. Once, following the direction she had seen him take in the morning, she came to an open space in a

nut copse, further shut in by huge yew trees, in the centre of which stood a stone pedestal surmounted by a

small bronze figure of a youthful Pan. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, but her attention was chiefly

held by the fact that a newly cut bunch of grapes had been placed as an offering at its feet. Grapes were none

too plentiful at the manor house, and Sylvia snatched the bunch angrily from the pedestal. Contemptuous

annoyance dominated her thoughts as she strolled slowly homeward, and then gave way to a sharp feeling of

something that was very near fright; across a thick tangle of undergrowth a boy's face was scowling at her,

brown and beautiful, with unutterably evil eyes. It was a lonely pathway, all pathways round Yessney were

lonely for the matter of that, and she sped forward without waiting to give a closer scrutiny to this sudden

apparition. It was not till she had reached the house that she discovered that she had dropped the bunch of

``I saw a youth in the wood today,'' she told Mortimer that evening, ``brownfaced and rather handsome, but

``A reasonable theory,'' said Mortimer, ``only there aren't any gipsies in these parts at present.''

``Then who was he?'' asked Sylvia, and as Mortimer appeared to have no theory of his own she passed on to

``I suppose it was your doing,'' she observed; ``it's a harmless piece of lunacy, but people would think you

``II threw the grapes away. It seemed so silly,'' said Sylvia, watching Mortimer's impassive face for a sign

``I don't think you were wise to do that,'' he said reflectively. ``I've heard it said that the Wood Gods are

``Horrible perhaps to those that believe in them, but you see I don't,'' retorted Sylvia.

``All the same,'' said Mortimer in his even, dispassionate tone, ``I should avoid the woods and orchards if I

It was all nonsense, of course, but in that lonely woodgirt spot nonsense seemed able to rear a bastard brood

``Mortimer,'' said Sylvia suddenly, ``I think we will go back to Town some time soon.''

Her victory had not been so complete as she had supposed; it had carried her on to ground that she was

``I don't think you will ever go back to Town,'' said Mortimer. He seemed to be paraphrasing his mother's

Sylvia noted with dissatisfaction and some selfcontempt that the course of her next afternoon's ramble took

her instinctively clear of the network of woods. As to the horned cattle, Mortimer's warning was scarcely

needed, for she had always regarded them as of doubtful neutrality at the best: her imagination unsexed the

most matronly dairy cows and turned them into bulls liable to ``see red'' at any moment. The ram who fed in

the narrow paddock below the orchards she had adjudged, after ample and cautious probation, to be of docile

temper; today, however, she decided to leave his docility untested, for the usually tranquil beast was roaming

with every sign of restlessness from corner to corner of his meadow. A low, fitful piping, as of some reedy

flute, was coming from the depth of a neighbouring copse, and there seemed to be some subtle connection

between the animal's restless pacing and the wild music from the wood. Sylvia turned her steps in an upward

direction and climbed the heatherclad slopes that stretched in rolling shoulders high above Yessney. She had

left the piping notes behind her, but across the wooded combes at her feet the wind brought her another kind

of music, the straining bay of hounds in full chase. Yessney was just on the outskirts of the

DevonandSomerset country, and the hunted deer sometimes came that way. Sylvia could presently see a

dark body, breasting hill after hill, and sinking again and again out of sight as he crossed the combes, while

behind him steadily swelled that relentless chorus, and she grew tense with the excited sympathy that one

feels for any hunted thing in whose capture one is not directly interested. And at last he broke through the

outermost line of oak scrub and fern and stood panting in the open, a fat September stag carrying a

wellfurnished head. His obvious course was to drop down to the brown pools of Undercombe, and thence

make his way towards the red deer's favoured sanctuary, the sea. To Sylvia's surprise, however, he turned his

head to the upland slope and came lumbering resolutely onward over the heather. ``It will be dreadful,'' she

thought, ``the hounds will pull him down under my very eyes.'' But the music of the pack seemed to have

died away for a moment, and in its place she heard again that wild piping, which rose now on this side, now

on that, as though urging the failing stag to a final effort. Sylvia stood well aside from his path, half hidden in

a thick growth of whortle bushes, and watched him swing stiffly upward, his flanks dark with sweat, the

coarse hair on his neck showing light by contrast. The pipe music shrilled suddenly around her, seeming to

come from the bushes at her very feet, and at the same moment the great beast slewed round and bore directly

down upon her. In an instant her pity for the hunted animal was changed to wild terror at her own danger; the

thick heather roots mocked her scrambling efforts at flight, and she looked frantically downward for a

glimpse of oncoming hounds. The huge antler spikes were within a few yards of her, and in a flash of

numbing fear she remembered Mortimer's warning, to beware of horned beasts on the farm. And then with a

quick throb of joy she saw that she was not alone; a human figure stood a few paces aside, kneedeep in the

The antlers drove straight at her breast, the acrid smell of the hunted animal was in her nostrils, but her eyes

were filled with the horror of something she saw other than her oncoming death. And in her ears rang the

``Tell me a story,'' said the Baroness, staring out despairingly at the rain; it was that light, apologetic sort of

rain that looks as if it was going to leave off every minute and goes on for the greater part of the afternoon.

``What sort of story?'' asked Clovis, giving his croquet mallet a valedictory shove into retirement.

``One just true enough to be interesting and not true enough to be tiresome,'' said the Baroness.

Clovis rearranged several cushions to his personal solace and satisfaction; he knew that the Baroness liked

her guests to be comfortable, and he thought it right to respect her wishes in that particular.

``You've told me stories about granddukes and liontamers and financiers' widows and a postmaster in

Herzegovina,'' said the Baroness, ``and about an Italian jockey and an amateur governess who went to

Warsaw, and several about your mother, but certainly never anything about a saint.''

``This story happened a long while ago,'' he said, ``in those uncomfortable piebald times when a third of the

people were Pagan, and a third Christian, and the biggest third of all just followed whichever religion the

Court happened to profess. There was a certain king called Hkrikros, who had a fearful temper and no

immediate successor in his own family; his married sister, however, had provided him with a large stock of

nephews from which to select his heir. And the most eligible and royallyapproved of all these nephews was

the sixteenyearold Vespaluus. He was the best looking, and the best horseman and javelinthrower, and

had that priceless princely gift of being able to walk past a supplicant with an air of not having seen him, but

would certainly have given something if he had. My mother has that gift to a certain extent; she can go

smilingly and financially unscathed through a charity bazaar, and meet the organizers next day with a

solicitous `had I but known you were in need of funds' air that is really rather a triumph in audacity. Now

Hkrikros was a Pagan of the first water, and kept the worship of the sacred serpents, who lived in a hallowed

grove on a hill near the royal palace, up to a high pitch of enthusiasm. The common people were allowed to

please themselves, within certain discreet limits, in the matter of private religion, but any official in the

service of the Court who went over to the new cult was looked down on, literally as well as metaphorically,

the looking down being done from the gallery that ran round the royal bearpit. Consequently there was

considerable scandal and consternation when the youthful Vespaluus appeared one day at a Court function

with a rosary tucked into his belt, and announced in reply to angry questionings that he had decided to adopt

Christianity, or at any rate to give it a trial. If it had been any of the other nephews the king would possibly

have ordered something drastic in the way of scourging and banishment, but in the case of the favoured

Vespaluus he determined to look on the whole thing much as a modern father might regard the announced

intention of his son to adopt the stage as a profession. He sent accordingly for the Royal Librarian. The royal

library in those days was not a very extensive affair, and the keeper of the king's books had a great deal of

leisure on his hands. Consequently he was in frequent demand for the settlement of other people's affairs

`` `You must reason with Prince Vespaluus,' said the king, `and impress on him the error of his ways. We

`` `I give you free leave to pick and choose your arguments in the royal woods and coppices,' said the king;

`if you cannot get together some cutting observations and stinging retorts suitable to the occasion you are a

``So the Librarian went into the woods and gathered a goodly selection of highly argumentative rods and

switches, and then proceeded to reason with Vespaluus on the folly and iniquity and above all the

unseemliness of his conduct. His reasoning left a deep impression on the young prince, an impression which

lasted for many weeks, during which time nothing more was heard about the unfortunate lapse into

Christianity. Then a further scandal of the same nature agitated the Court. At a time when he should have

been engaged in audibly invoking the gracious protection and patronage of the holy serpents, Vespaluus was

heard singing a chant in honour of St. Odilo of Cluny. The king was furious at this new outbreak, and began

to take a gloomy view of the situation; Vespaluus was evidently going to show a dangerous obstinacy in

persisting in his heresy. And yet there was nothing in his appearance to justify such perverseness; he had not

the pale eye of the fanatic or the mystic look of the dreamer. On the contrary, he was quite the bestlooking

boy at Court; he had an elegant, wellknit figure, a healthy complexion, eyes the colour of very ripe

``It sounds like a description of what you imagine yourself to have been like at the age of sixteen,'' said the

``My mother has probably been showing you some of my early photographs,'' said Clovis. Having turned the

``The king had Vespaluus shut up in a dark tower for three days, with nothing but bread and water to live on,

the squealing and fluttering of bats to listen to, and drifting clouds to watch through one little window slit.

The antiPagan section of the community began to talk portentously of the boymartyr. The martyrdom was

mitigated, as far as the food was concerned, by the carelessness of the tower warden, who once or twice left a

portion of his own supper of broiled meat and fruit and wine by mistake in the prince's cell. After the

punishment was over, Vespaluus was closely watched for any further symptom of religious perversity, for the

king was determined to stand no more opposition on so important a matter, even from a favourite nephew. If

there was any more of this nonsense, he said, the succession to the throne would have to be altered.

``For a time all went well; the festival of summer sports was approaching, and the young Vespaluus was too

engrossed in wrestling and footrunning and javelinthrowing competitions to bother himself with the strife

of conflicting religious systems. Then, however, came the great culminating feature of the summer festival,

the ceremonial dance round the grove of the sacred serpents, and Vespaluus, as we should say, `sat it out.'

The affront to the State religion was too public and ostentatious to be overlooked, even if the king had been

so minded, and he was not in the least so minded. For a day and a half he sat apart and brooded, and every

one thought he was debating within himself the question of the young prince's death or pardon; as a matter of

fact he was merely thinking out the manner of the boys death. As the thing had to be done, and was bound to

attract an enormous amount of public attention in any case, it was as well to make it as spectacular and

`` `Apart from his unfortunate taste in religions,' said the king, `and his obstinacy in adhering to it, he is a

sweet and pleasant youth, therefore it is meet and fitting that he should be done to death by the winged

`` `I mean,' said the king, `that he shall be stung to death by bees. By the royal bees, of course.'

`` `Elegant and spectacular, and decidedly painful,' said the king; `it fulfills all the conditions that could be

``The king himself thought out all the details of the execution ceremony. Vespaluus was to be stripped of his

clothes, his hands were to be bound behind him, and he was then to be slung in a recumbent position

immediately above three of the largest of the royal beehives, so that the least movement of his body would

bring him in jarring contact with them. The rest could be safely left to the bees. The death throes, the king

computed, might last anything from fifteen to forty minutes, though there was division of opinion and

considerable wagering among the other nephews as to whether death might not be almost instantaneous, or,

on the other hand, whether it might not be deferred for a couple of hours. Anyway, they all agreed, it was

vastly preferable to being thrown down into an evil smelling bearpit and being clawed and mauled to death

``It so happened, however, that the keeper of the royal hives had leanings towards Christianity himself, and

moreover, like most of the Court officials, he was very much attached to Vespaluus. On the eve of the

execution, therefore, he busied himself with removing the stings from all the royal bees; it was a long and

delicate operation, but he was an expert beemaster, and by working hard nearly all night he succeeded in

``I didn't know you could take the sting from a live bee,'' said the Baroness incredulously.

``Every profession has its secrets,'' replied Clovis; ``if it hadn't it wouldn't be a profession. Well, the moment

for the execution arrived; the king and Court took their places, and accommodation was found for as many of

the populace as wished to witness the unusual spectacle. Fortunately the royal beeyard was of considerable

dimensions, and was commanded, moreover, by the terraces that ran round the royal gardens; with a little

squeezing and the erection of a few platforms room was found for everybody. Vespaluus was carried into the

open space in front of the hives, blushing and slightly embarrassed, but not at all displeased at the attention

``He seems to have resembled you in more things than in appearance,'' said the Baroness.

``Don't interrupt at a critical point in the story,'' said Clovis. ``As soon as he had been carefully adjusted in

the prescribed position over the hives, and almost before the gaolers had time to retire to a safe distance,

Vespaluus gave a lusty and wellaimed kick, which sent all three hives toppling one over another. The next

moment he was wrapped from head to foot in bees; each individual insect nursed the dreadful and humiliating

knowledge that in this supreme hour of catastrophe it could not sting, but each felt that it ought to pretend to.

Vespaluus squealed and wriggled with laughter, for he was being tickled nearly to death, and now and again

he gave a furious kick and used a bad word as one of the few bees that had escaped disarmament got its

protest home. But the spectators saw with amazement that he showed no signs of approaching death agony,

and as the bees dropped wearily away in clusters from his body his flesh was seen to be as white and smooth

as before the ordeal, with a shiny glaze from the honeysmear of innumerable beefeet, and here and there a

small red spot where one of the rare stings had left its mark. It was obvious that a miracle had been performed

in his favour, and one loud murmur, of astonishment or exultation, rose from the onlooking crowd. The king

gave orders for Vespaluus to be taken down to await further orders, and stalked silently back to his midday

meal, at which he was careful to eat heartily and drink copiously as though nothing unusual had happened.

`` `Your Majesty,' said that official, `either there is something radically wrong with the bees'

`` `There is nothing wrong with my bees,' said the king haughtily, `they are the best bees.'

`` `Or else,' said the Librarian, `there is something irremediably right about Prince Vespaluus.'

``The Librarian was silent for a moment. Hasty speech has been the downfall of many; illconsidered silence

``Forgetting the restraint due to his dignity, and the golden rule which imposes repose of mind and body after

a heavy meal, the king rushed upon the keeper of the royal books and hit him repeatedly and promiscuously

over the head with an ivory chessboard, a pewter wineflagon, and a brass candlestick; he knocked him

violently and often against an iron torch sconce, and kicked him thrice round the banqueting chamber with

rapid, energetic kicks. Finally, he dragged him down a long passage by the hair of his head and flung him out

``More hurt than surprised,'' said Clovis. ``You see, the king was notorious for his violent temper. However,

this was the first time he had let himself go so unrestrainedly on the top of a heavy meal. The Librarian

lingered for many daysin fact, for all I know, he may have ultimately recovered, but Hkrikros died that

same evening. Vespaluus had hardly finished getting the honey stains off his body before a hurried deputation

came to put the coronation oil on his head. And what with the publiclywitnessed miracle and the accession

of a Christian sovereign, it was not surprising that there was a general scramble of converts to the new

religion. A hastily consecrated bishop was overworked with a rush of baptisms in the hastily improvised

Cathedral of St. Odilo. And the boymartyrthatmighthavebeen was transposed in the popular

imagination into a royal boysaint, whose fame attracted throngs of curious and devout sightseers to the

capital. Vespaluus, who was busily engaged in organizing the games and athletic contests that were to mark

the commencement of his reign, had no time to give heed to the religious fervour which was effervescing

round his personality; the first indication he had of the existing state of affairs was when the Court

Chamberlain (a recent and very ardent addition to the Christian community) brought for his approval the

`` `Your Majesty will be graciously pleased to cut down the first tree with a specially consecrated axe,' said

`` `I'll cut off your head first, with any axe that comes handy,' said Vespaluus indignantly; `do you suppose

that I'm going to begin my reign by mortally affronting the sacred serpents? It would be most unlucky.'

`` `But your Majesty's Christian principles?' exclaimed the bewildered Chamberlain.

`` `I never had any,' said Vespaluus; `I used to pretend to be a Christian convert just to annoy Hkrikros. He

used to fly into such delicious tempers. And it was rather fun being whipped and scolded and shut up in a

tower all for nothing. But as to turning Christian in real earnest, like you people seem to do, I couldn't think

of such a thing. And the holy and esteemed serpents have always helped me when I've prayed to them for

success in my running and wrestling and hunting, and it was through their distinguished intercession that the

bees were not able to hurt me with their stings. It would be black ingratitude to turn against their worship at

`` `But, your Majesty,' he wailed, `the people are reverencing you as a saint, and the nobles are being

Christianized in batches, and neighbouring potentates of that Faith are sending special envoys to welcome

you as a brother. There is some talk of making you the patron saint of beehives, and a certain shade of

honeyyellow has been christened Vespalussian gold at the Emperor's Court. You can't surely go back on all

`` `I don't mind being reverenced and greeted and honoured,' said Vespaluus; `I don't even mind being sainted

in moderation, as long as I'm not expected to be saintly as well. But I wish you clearly and finally to

understand that I will not give up the worship of the august and auspicious serpents.'

``There was a world of unspoken bearpit in the way he uttered those last words, and the mulberrydark eyes

``Finally, as a State necessity, the matter of the religions was compromised. At stated intervals the king

appeared before his subjects in the national cathedral in the character of St. Vespaluus, and the idolatrous

grove was gradually pruned and lopped away till nothing remained of it. But the sacred and esteemed

serpents were removed to a private shrubbery in the royal gardens, where Vespaluus the Pagan and certain

members of his household devoutly and decently worshipped them. That possibly is the reason why the

boyking's success in sports and hunting never deserted him to the end of his days, and that is also the reason

why, in spite of the popular veneration for his sanctity, he never received official canonization.''

The Baroness and Clovis sat in a muchfrequented corner of the Park exchanging biographical confidences

``Who are those depressedlooking young women who have just gone by?'' asked the Baroness; ``they have

the air of people who have bowed to destiny and are not quite sure whether the salute will be returned.''

``Those,'' said Clovis, ``are the Brimley Bomefields. I dare say you would look depressed if you had been

``I'm always having depressing experiences,'' said the Baroness, ``but I never give them outward expression.

``Well,'' said Clovis, ``the beginning of their tragedy was that they found an aunt. The aunt had been there all

the time, but they had very nearly forgotten her existence until a distant relative refreshed their memory, by

remembering her very distinctly in his will; it is wonderful what the force of example will accomplish. The

aunt, who had been unobtrusively poor, became quite pleasantly rich, and the Brimley Bomefields grew

suddenly concerned at the loneliness of her life and took her under their collective wings. She had as many

``So far I don't see any tragedy from the Brimley Bomefields' point of view,'' said the Baroness.

``We haven't got to it yet,'' said Clovis. ``The aunt had been used to living very simply, and had seen next to

nothing of what we should consider life, and her nieces didn't encourage her to do much in the way of making

a splash with her money. Quite a good deal of it would come to them at her death, and she was a fairly old

woman, but there was one circumstance which cast a shadow of gloom over the satisfaction they felt in the

discovery and acquisition of this desirable aunt: she openly acknowledged that a comfortable slice of her little

fortune would go to a nephew on the other side of her family. He was rather a deplorable thing in rotters, and

quite hopelessly tophole in the way of getting through money, but he had been more or less decent to the old

lady in her unremembered days, and she wouldn't hear anything against him. At least, she wouldn't pay any

attention to what she did hear, but her nieces took care that she should have to listen to a good deal in that

line. It seemed such a pity, they said among themselves, that good money should fall into such wortless

hands. They habitually spoke of their aunt's money as `good money,' as though other people's aunts dabbled

``Regularly after the Derby, St. Leger, and other notable racing events they indulged in audible speculations

`` `His travelling expenses must come to a big sum,' said the eldest Brimley Bomefield one day; `they say he

attends every racemeeting in England, besides others abroad. I shouldn't wonder if he went all the way to

India to see the race for the Calcutta Sweepstake that one hears so much about.'

`` `Yes, dear aunt, travel undertaken in the right spirit,' agreed Christine; `but travel pursued merely as a

means towards gambling and extravagant living is more likely to contract the purse than to enlarge the mind.

However, as long as Roger enjoys himself, I suppose he doesn't care how fast or unprofitably the money

``The aunt by that time had begun to talk of something else, and it was doubtful if Christine's moralizing had

been even accorded a hearing. It was her remark, howeverthe aunt's remark, I meanabout travel

enlarging the mind, that gave the youngest Brimley Bomefield her great idea for the showingup of Roger.

`` `If aunt could only be taken somewhere to see him gambling and throwing away money,' she said, `it

would open her eyes to his character more effectually than anything we can say.'

`` `My dear Veronique,' said her sisters, `we can't go following him to racemeetings.'

`` `Certainly not to racemeetings,' said Veronique, `but we might go to some place where one can look on at

`` `Do you mean Monte Carlo?' they asked her, beginning to jump rather at the idea.

`` `Monte Carlo is a long way off, and has a dreadful reputation,' said Veronique; `I shouldn't like to tell our

friends that we were going to Monte Carlo. But I believe Roger usually goes to Dieppe about this time of

year, and some quite respectable English people go there, and the journey wouldn't be expensive. If aunt

could stand the Channel crossing the change of scene might do her a lot of good.'

``From the very first setoff disaster hung over the expedition, as they afterwards remembered. To begin

with, all the Brimley Bomefields were extremely unwell during the crossing, while the aunt enjoyed the sea

air and made friends with all manner of strange travelling companions. Then, although it was many years

since she had been on the Continent, she had served a very practical apprenticeship there as a paid

companion, and her knowledge of colloquial French beat theirs to a standstill. It became increasingly difficult

to keep under their collective wings a person who knew what she wanted and was able to ask for it and to see

that she got it. Also, as far as Roger was concerned, they drew Dieppe blank; it turned out that he was staying

at Pourville, a little wateringplace a mile or two further west. The Brimley Bomefields discovered that

Dieppe was too crowded and frivolous, and persuaded the old lady to migrate to the comparative seclusion of

`` `You won't find it dull, you know,' they assured her; `there is a little casino attached to the hotel, and you

``Roger was not staying in the same hotel, but they knew that the casino would be certain of his patronage on

``On the first evening of their visit they wandered into the casino after a fairly early dinner, and hovered near

the tables. Bertie van Tahn was staying there at the time, and he described the whole incident to me. The

Brimley Bomefields kept a furtive watch on the doors as though they were expecting some one to turn up,

and the aunt got more and more amused and interested watching the little horses whirl round and round the

`` `Do you know, poor little number eight hasn't won for the last thirtytwo times,' she said to Christine; `I've

been keeping count. I shall really have to put five francs on him to encourage him.'

`` `Come and watch the dancing, dear,' said Christine nervously. It was scarcely a part of their strategy that

Roger should come in and find the old lady backing her fancy at the petits chevaux table.

`` `Just wait while I put five francs on number eight,' said the aunt, and in another moment her money was

lying on the table. The horses commenced to move round; it was a slow race this time, and number eight

crept up at the finish like some crafty demon and placed his nose just a fraction in front of number three, who

had seemed to be winning easily. Recourse had to be had to measurement, and the number eight was

proclaimed the winner. The aunt picked up thirtyfive francs. After that the Brimley Bomefields would have

had to have used concerted force to get her away from the tables. When Roger appeared on the scene she was

fiftytwo francs to the good; her nieces were hovering forlornly in the background, like chickens that have

been hatched out by a duck and are despairingly watching their parent disporting herself in a dangerous and

uncongenial element. The supperparty which Roger insisted on standing that night in honour of his aunt and

the three Miss Brimley Bomefields was remarkable for the unrestrained gaiety of two of the participants and

`` `I do not think,' Christine confided afterwards to a friend, who reconfided it to Bertie van Tahn, `that I

shall ever be able to touch pa^te' de foie gras again. It would bring back memories of that awful evening.'

``For the next two or three days the nieces made plans for returning to England or moving on to some other

resort where there was no casino. The aunt was busy making a system for winning at petits chevaux. Number

eight, her first love, had been running rather unkindly for her, and a series of plunges on number five had

`` `Do you know, I dropped over seven hundred francs at the tables this afternoon,' she announced cheerfully

`` `Oh, I shall get it all back,' she said optimistically; `but not here. These silly little horses are no good. I

shall go somewhere where one can play comfortably at roulette. You needn't look so shocked. I've always felt

that, given the opportunity, I should be an inveterate gambler, and now you darlings have put the opportunity

in my way. I must drink your very good healths. Waiter, a bottle of Pontet Canet. Ah, it's number seven on

the wine list; I shall plunge on number seven tonight. It won four times running this afternoon when I was

``Number seven was not in a winning mood that evening. The Brimley Bomefields, tired of watching disaster

from a distance, drew near to the table where their aunt was now an honoured habitue'e, and gazed

mournfully at the successive victories of one and five and eight and four, which swept `good money' out of

the purse of seven's obstinate backer. The day's losses totalled something very near two thousand francs.

`` `You incorrigible gamblers,' said Roger chaffingly to them, when he found them at the tables.

`` `I don't think,' said Roger knowingly; `of course you're a syndicate and aunt is putting the stakes on for all

of you. Any one can tell by your looks when the wrong horse wins that you've got a stake on.'

``Aunt and nephew had supper alone that night, or at least they would have if Bertie hadn't joined them; all

``The aunt carried them all off to Dieppe the next day and set cheerily about the task of winning back some of

her losses. Her luck was variable; in fact, she had some fair streaks of good fortune, just enough to keep her

thoroughly amused with her new distraction; but on the whole she was a loser. The Brimley Bomefields had a

collective attack of nervous prostration on the day when she sold out a quantity of shares in Argentine rails.

`Nothing will ever bring that money back,' they remarked lugubriously to one another.

``Veronique at last could bear it no longer, and went home; you see, it had been her idea to bring the aunt on

this disastrous expedition, and though the others did not cast the fact verbally in her face, there was a certain

lurking reproach in their eyes which was harder to meet than actual upbraidings. The other two remained

behind, forlornly mounting guard over their aunt until such time as the waning of the Dieppe season should at

last turn her in the direction of home and safety. They made anxious calculations as to how little `good

money' might, with reasonable luck, be squandered in the meantime. Here, however, their reckoning went far

astray; the close of the Dieppe season merely turned their aunt's thoughts in search of some other convenient

gambling resort. `Show a cat the way to the dairy' I forget how the proverb goes on, but it summed up the

situation as far as the Brimley Bomefields' aunt was concerned. She had been introduced to unexplored

pleasures, and found them greatly to her liking, and she was in no hurry to forgo the fruits of her newly

acquired knowledge. You see, for the first time in her life the old thing was thoroughly enjoying herself; she

was losing money, but she had plenty of fun and excitement over the process, and she had enough left to do

very comfortably on. Indeed, she was only just learning to understand the art of doing oneself well. She was a

popular hostess, and in return her fellowgamblers were always ready to entertain her to dinners and suppers

when their luck was in. Her nieces, who still remained in attendance on her, with the pathetic unwillingness

of a crew to leave a foundering treasure ship which might yet be steered into port, found little pleasure in

these Bohemian festivities; to see `good money' lavished on good living for the entertainment of a

nondescript circle of acquaintances who were not likely to be in any way socially useful to them, did not

attune them to a spirit of revelry. They contrived, whenever possible, to excuse themselves from participation

in their aunt's deplored gaieties; the Brimley Bomefield headaches became famous.

``And one day the nieces came to the conclusion that, as they would have expressed it, `no useful purpose

would be served' by their continued attendance on a relative who had so thoroughly emancipated herself from

the sheltering protection of their wings. The aunt bore the announcement of their departure with a

`` `It's time you went home and had those headaches seen to by a specialist,' was her comment on the

``The homeward journey of the Brimley Bomefields was a veritable retreat from Moscow, and what made it

the more bitter was the fact that the Moscow, in this case, was not overwhelmed with fire and ashes, but

``From mutual friends and acquaintances they sometimes get glimpses of their prodigal relative, who has

settled down into a confirmed gambling maniac, living on such salvage of income as obliging moneylenders

``So you need not be surprised,'' concluded Clovis, ``if they do wear a depressed look in public.''

``I want you to help me in getting up a dramatic entertainment of some sort,'' said the Baroness to Clovis.

``You see, there's been an election petition down here, and a member unseated and no end of bitterness and

illfeeling, and the County is socially divided against itself. I thought a play of some kind would be an

excellent opportunity for bringing people together again, and giving them something to think of besides

The Baroness was evidently ambitious of reproducing beneath her own roof the pacifying effects traditionally

``We might do something on the lines of Greek tragedy,'' said Clovis, after due reflection; ``the Return of

``Oh, now I know the story, of course. Do you want me to take the part of Charlotte Corday?''

``That's a different story and a different century,'' said Clovis; ``the dramatic unities forbid one to lay a scene

in more than one century at a time. The killing in this case has to be done by Clytemnestra.''

``Rather a pretty name. I'll do that part. I suppose you want to be Agawhatever his name is?''

``Dear no. Agamemnon was the father of grownup children, and probably wore a beard and looked

prematurely aged. I shall be his charioteer or bathattendant, or something decorative of that kind. We must

``I don't know,'' said the Baroness; ``at least, I should know better if you would explain exactly what you

Clovis obliged: ``Weird music, and exotic skippings and flying leaps, and lots of drapery and undrapery.

``I think I told you the County are coming. The County won't stand anything very Greek.''

``You can get over any objection by calling it Hygiene, or limbculture, or something of that sort. After all,

every one exposes their insides to the public gaze and sympathy nowadays, so why not one's outside?''

``My dear boy, I can ask the County to a Greek play, or to a costume play, but to a Greekcostume play,

never. It doesn't do to let the dramatic instinct carry one too far; one must consider one's environment. When

one lives among greyhounds one should avoid giving lifelike imitations of a rabbit, unless one wants one's

head snapped off. Remember, I've got this place on a seven years' lease. And then,'' continued the Baroness,

``as to skippings and flying leaps; I must ask Emily Dushford to take a part. She's a dear good thing, and will

do anything she's told, or try to; but can you imagine her doing a flying leap under any circumstances?''

``She can be Cassandra, and she need only take flying leaps into the future, in a metaphorical sense.''

``She was a sort of advanceagent for calamities. To know her was to know the worst. Fortunately for the

gaiety of the age she lived in, no one took her very seriously. Still, it must have been fairly galling to have her

turning up after every catastrophe with a conscious air of `perhaps another time you'll believe what I say.' ''

``Well, hardly,'' said Clovis; ``you see, the satisfaction of putting a violent end to Cassandra must have been

considerably damped by the fact that she had foretold what was going to happen to her. She probably dies

with an intensely irritating `whatdidItellyou' smile on her lips. By the way, of course all the killing will

``Little and often, you know, instead of one sweeping blow. You see, you are at your own home, so there's no

need to hurry over the murdering as though it were some disagreeable but necessary duty.''

``I suppose you rush into your lover's arms. That is where one of the flying leaps will come in.''

The gettingup and rehearsing of the play seemed likely to cause, in a restricted area, nearly as much

heartburning and illfeeling as the election petition. Clovis, as adapter and stagemanager, insisted, as far

as he was able, on the charioteer being quite the most prominent character in the play, and his pantherskin

tunic caused almost as much trouble and discussion as Clytemnestra's spasmodic succession of lovers, who

broke down on probation with alarming uniformity. When the cast was at length fixed beyond hope of

reprieve matters went scarcely more smoothly. Clovis and the Baroness rather overdid the Sumurun manner,

while the rest of the company could hardly be said to attempt it at all. As for Cassandra, who was expected to

improvise her own prophecies, she appeared to be as incapable of taking flying leaps into futurity as of

``Woe! Trojans, woe to Troy!'' was the most inspired remark she could produce after several hours of

``It's no earthly use foretelling the fall of Troy,'' expostulated Clovis, ``because Troy has fallen before the

action of the play begins. And you mustn't say too much about your own impending doom either, because

``My dear girl,'' protested Clovis, ``have you reflected that Cassandra specialized in foretelling calamities?''

``On no account,'' entreated Clovis; ``do remember that all Cassandra's predictions came true. The M.F.H.

and the Hunt Secretary are both awfully superstitious, and they are both going to be present.''

Cassandra retreated hastily to her bedroom to bathe her eyes before appearing at tea.

The Baroness and Clovis were by this time scarcely on speaking terms. Each sincerely wished their

respective ro^le to be the pivot round which the entire production should revolve, and each lost no

opportunity for furthering the cause they had at heart. As fast as Clovis introduced some effective bit of

business for the charioteer (and he introduced a great many), the Baroness would remorselessly cut it out, or

more often dovetail it into her own part, while Clovis retaliated in a similar fashion whenever possible. The

climax came when Clytemnestra annexed some highly complimentary lines, which were to have been

addressed to the charioteer by a bevy of admiring Greek damsels, and put them into the mouth of her lover.

``Oh, Clytemnestra, radiant as the dawn,'' but there was a dangerous glitter in his eye that might have given

the Baroness warning. He had composed the verse himself, inspired and thoroughly carried away by his

subject; he suffered, therefore, a double pang in beholding his tribute deflected from its destined object, and

his words mutilated and twisted into what became an extravagant panegyric on the Baroness's personal

charms. It was from this moment that he became gentle and assiduous in his private coaching of Cassandra.

The County, forgetting its dissensions, mustered in full strength to witness the muchtalkedof production.

The protective Providence that looks after little children and amateur theatricals made good its traditional

promise that everything should be right on the night. The Baroness and Clovis seemed to have sunk their

mutual differences, and between them dominated the scene to the partial eclipse of all the other characters,

who, for the most part, seemed well content to remain in the shadow. Even Agamemnon, with ten years of

strenuous life around Troy standing to his credit, appeared to be an unobtrusive personality compared with

his flamboyant charioteer. But the moment came for Cassandra (who had been excused from any very

definite outpourings during rehearsals) to support her role by delivering herself of a few wellchosen

anticipations of pending misfortune. The musicians obliged with appropriately lugubrious wailings and

thumpings, and the Baroness seized the opportunity to make a dash to the dressingroom to effect certain

repairs in her makeup. Cassandra nervous but resolute, came down to the footlights and, like one repeating a

``I see woe for this fair country if the brood of corrupt, selfseeking, unscrupulous, unprincipled politicians''

(here she named one of the two rival parties in the State) ``continue to infest and poison our local councils

and undermine our Parliamentary representation; if they continue to snatch votes by nefarious and

A humming as of a great hive of bewildered and affronted bees drowned her further remarks and wore down

the droning of the musicians. The Baroness, who should have been greeted on her return to the stage with the

pleasing invocation, ``Oh, Clytemnestra, radiant as the dawn,'' heard instead the imperious voice of Lady

Thistledale ordering her carriage, and something like a storm of open discord going on at the back of the

The social divisions in the County healed themselves after their own fashion; both parties found common

She has been fortunate in subletting for the greater part of her seven years' lease.

Crefton Lockyer sat at his ease, an ease alike of body and soul, in the little patch of ground, halforchard and

halfgarden, that abutted on the farmyard at Mowsle Barton. After the stress and noise of long years of city

life, the repose and peace of the hillbegirt homestead struck on his senses with an almost dramatic intensity.

Time and space seemed to lose their meaning and their abruptness; the minutes slid away into hours, and the

meadows and fallows sloped away into middle distance, softly and imperceptibly. Wild weeds of the

hedgerow straggled into the flowergarden, and wallflowers and garden bushes made counterraids into

farmyard and lane. Sleepylooking hens and solemn preoccupied ducks were equally at home in yard,

orchard, or roadway; nothing seemed to belong definitely to anywhere; even the gates were not necessarily to

be found on their hinges. And over the whole scene brooded the sense of a peace that had almost a quality of

magic in it. In the afternoon you felt that it had always been afternoon, and must always remain afternoon; in

the twilight you knew that it could never have been anything else but twilight. Crefton Cockyer sat at his ease

in the rustic seat beneath an old medlar tree, and decided that here was the lifeanchorage that his mind had

so fondly pictured and that latterly his tired and jarred senses had so often pined for. He would make a

permanent lodgingplace among these simple friendly people, gradually increasing the modest comforts with

which he would like to surround himself, but falling in as much as possible with their manner of living.

As he slowly matured this resolution in his mind an elderly woman came hobbling with uncertain gait

through the orchard. He recognized her as a member of the farm household, the mother or possibly the

motherinlaw of Mrs. Spurfield, his present landlady, and hastily formulated some pleasant remark to make

She spoke in a dull impersonal manner, as though the question had been on her lips for years and has best be

got rid of. Her eyes, however, looked impatiently over Crefton's head at the door of a small barn which

``Martha Pillamon is an old witch'' was the announcement that met Crefton's inquiring scrutiny, and he

hesitated a moment before giving the statement wider publicity. For all he knew to the contrary, it might be

Martha herself to whom he was speaking. It was possible that Mrs. Spurfield's maiden name had been

Pillamon. And the gaunt, withered old dame at his side might certainly fulfil local conditions as to the

``It's something about some one called Martha Pillamon,'' he explained cautiously.

``It's very disrespectful,'' said Crefton; ``it says she's a witch. Such things ought not to be written up.''

``It's true, every word of it,'' said his listener with considerable satisfaction, adding as a special descriptive

And as she hobbled away through the farmyard she shrilled out in her cracked voice, ``Martha Pillamon is an

``Did you hear what she said?'' mumbled a weak, angry voice somewhere behind Crefton's shoulder. Turning

hastily, he beheld another old crone, thin and yellow and wrinkled, and evidently in a high state of

displeasure. Obviously this was Martha Pillamon in person. The orchard seemed to be a favourite promenade

``'Tis lies, 'tis sinful lies,'' the weak voice went on. ``'Tis Betsy Croot is the old witch. She an' her daughter,

As she limped slowly away her eye caught the chalk inscription on the barn door.

``Vote for Soarker,'' he responded, with the craven boldness of the practised peacemaker.

The old woman grunted, and her mutterings and her faded red shawl lost themselves gradually among the

treetrunks. Crefton rose presently and made his way towards the farmhouse. Somehow a good deal of the

The cheery bustle of teatime in the old farm kitchen, which Crefton had found so agreeable on previous

afternoons, seemed to have soured today into a certain uneasy melancholy. There was a dull, dragging silence

around the board, and the tea itself, when Crefton came to taste it, was a flat, lukewarm concoction that

``It's no use complaining of the tea,'' said Mrs. Spurfield hastily, as her guest stared with an air of polite

Crefton turned to the hearth, where an unusually fierce fire was banked up under a big black kettle, which

sent a thin wreath of steam from its spout, but seemed otherwise to ignore the action of the roaring blaze

``It's been there more than an hour, an' boil it won't,'' said Mrs. Spurfield, adding, by way of complete

``It's Martha Pillamon as has done it,'' chimed in the old mother; ``I'll be even with the old toad, I'll put a spell

``It must boil in time,'' protested Crefton, ignoring the suggestions of foul influences. ``Perhaps the coal is

``It won't boil in time for supper, nor for breakfast tomorrow morning, not if you was to keep the fire agoing

all night for it,'' said Mrs. Spurfield. And it didn't. The household subsisted on fried and baked dishes, and a

neighbour obligingly brewed tea and sent it across in a moderately warm condition.

``I suppose you'll be leaving us now that things has turned up uncomfortable,'' Mrs. Spurfield observed at

Crefton hurriedly disclaimed any immediate change of plans; he observed, however, to himself that the

earlier heartiness of manner had in a large measure deserted the household. Suspicious looks, sulky silences,

or sharp speeches had become the order of the day. As for the old mother, she sat about the kitchen or the

garden all day, murmuring threats and spells against Martha Pillamon. There was something alike terrifying

and piteous in the spectacle of these frail old morsels of humanity consecrating their last flickering energies

to the task of making each other wretched. Hatred seemed to be the one faculty which had survived in

undiminished vigour and intensity where all else was dropping into ordered and symmetrical decay. And the

uncanny part of it was that some horrid unwholesome power seemed to be distilled from their spite and their

cursings. No amount of sceptical explanation could remove the undoubted fact that neither kettle nor

saucepan would come to boilingpoint over the hottest fire. Crefton clung as long as possible to the theory of

some defect in the coals, but a wood fire gave the same result, and when a small spiritlamp kettle, which he

ordered out by carrier, showed the same obstinate refusal to allow its contents to boil he felt that he had come

suddenly into contact with some unguessedat and very evil aspect of hidden forces. Miles away, down

through an opening in the hills, he could catch glimpses of a road where motorcars sometimes passed, and

yet here, so little removed from the arteries of the latest civilization, was a bathaunted old homestead, where

Passing out through the farm garden on his way to the lanes beyond, where he hoped to recapture the

comfortable sense of peacefulness that was so lacking around house and hearthespecially

hearthCrefton came across the old mother, sitting mumbling to herself in the seat beneath the medlar tree.

``Let un sink as swims, let un sink as swims,'' she was repeating over and over again, as a child repeats a

halflearned lesson. And now and then she would break off into a shrill laugh, with a note of malice in it that

was not pleasant to hear. Crefton was glad when he found himself out of earshot, in the quiet and seclusion of

the deep overgrown lanes that seemed to lead away to nowhere; one, narrower and deeper than the rest,

attracted his footsteps, and he was almost annoyed when he found that it really did act as a miniature roadway

to a human dwelling. A forlornlooking cottage with a scrap of illtended cabbage garden and a few aged

apple trees stood at an angle where a swiftflowing stream widened out for a space into a decentsized pond

before hurrying away again trough the willows that had checked its course. Crefton leaned against a

treetrunk and looked across the swirling eddies of the pond at the humble little homestead opposite him; the

only sign of life came from a small procession of dingylooking ducks that marched in single file down to

the water's edge. There is always something rather taking in the way a duck changes itself in an instant from a

slow, clumsy waddler of the earth to a graceful, buoyant swimmer of the waters, and Crefton waited with a

certain arrested attention to watch the leader of the file launch itself on to the surface of the pond. He was

aware at the same time of a curious warning instinct that something strange and unpleasant was about to

happen. The duck flung itself confidently forward into the water, and rolled immediately under the surface.

Its head appeared for a moment and went under again, leaving a train of bubbles in its wake, while wings and

legs churned the water in a helpless swirl of flapping and kicking. The bird was obviously drowning. Crefton

thought at first that it had caught itself in some weeds, or was being attacked from below by a pike or

waterrat. But no blood floated to the surface, and the wildly bobbing body made the circuit of the pond

current without hindrance from any entanglement. A second duck had by this time launched itself into the

pond, and a second struggling body rolled and twisted under the surface. There was something peculiarly

piteous in the sight of the gasping beaks that showed now and again above the water, as though in terrified

protest at this treachery of a trusted and familiar element. Crefton gazed with something like horror as a third

duck poised itself on the bank and splashed in, to share the fate of the other two. He felt almost relieved when

the remainder of the flock, taking tardy alarm from the commotion of the slowly drowning bodies, drew

themselves up with tense outstretched necks, and sidled away from the scene of danger, quacking a deep note

of disquietude as they went. At the same moment Crefton became aware that he was not the only human

witness of the scene; a bent and withered old woman, whom he recognized at once as Martha Pillamon, of

sinister reputation, had limped down the cottage path to the water's edge, and was gazing fixedly at the

gruesome whirligig of dying birds that went in horrible procession round the pool. Presently her voice rang

``'Tis Betsy Croot adone it, the old rat. I'll put a spell on her, see if I don't.''

Crefton slipped quietly away, uncertain whether or no the old woman had noticed his presence. Even before

she had proclaimed the guiltiness of Betsy Croot, the latter's muttered incantation ``Let un sink as swims'' had

flashed uncomfortably across his mind. But it was the final threat of a retaliatory spell which crowded his

mind with misgiving to the exclusion of all other thoughts or fancies. His reasoning powers could no longer

afford to dismiss these oldwives' threats as empty bickerings. The household at Mowsle Barton lay under

the displeasure of a vindictive old woman who seemed able to materialize her personal spites in a very

practical fashion, and there was no saying what form her revenge for three drowned ducks might not take. As

a member of the household Crefton might find himself involved in some general and highly disagreeable

visitation of Martha Pillamon's wrath. Of course he knew that he was giving way to absurd fancies, but the

behaviour of the spiritlamp kettle and the subsequent scene at the pond had considerably unnerved him. And

the vagueness of his alarm added to its terrors; when once you have taken the Impossible into your

Crefton rose at his usual early hour the next morning, after one of the least restful nights he had spent at the

farm. His sharpened senses quickly detected that subtle atmosphere of thingsbeingnotaltogether well that

hangs over a stricken household. The cows had been milked, but they stood huddled about in the yard,

waiting impatiently to be driven out afield, and the poultry kept up an importunate querulous reminder of

deferred feedingtime; the yard pump, which usually made discordant music at frequent intervals during the

early morning, was today ominously silent. In the house itself there was a coming and going of scuttering

footsteps, a rushing and dying away of hurried voices, and long, uneasy stillnesses. Crefton finished his

dressing and made his way to the head of a narrow staircase. He could hear a dull, complaining voice, a voice

into which an awed hush had crept, and recognized the speaker as Mrs. Spurfield.

``He'll go away, for sure,'' the voice was saying; ``there are those as runs away from one as soon as real

Crefton felt that he probably was one of ``those,'' and that there were moments when it was advisable to be

He crept back to his room, collected and, packed his few belongings, placed the money due for his lodgings

on a table, and made his way out by a back door into the yard. A mob of poultry surged expectantly towards

him; shaking off their interested attentions he hurried along under cover of cowstall, piggery, and hayricks till

he reached the lane at the back of the farm. A few minutes' walk, which only the burden of his portmanteaux

restrained from developing into an undisguised run, brought him to a main road, where the early carrier soon

overtook him and sped him onward to the neighbouring town. At a bend of the road he caught a last glimpse

of the farm; the old gabled roofs and thatched barns, the straggling orchard, and the medlar tree, with its

wooden seat, stood out with an almost spectral clearness in the early morning light, and over it all brooded

The bustle and roar of Paddington Station smote on his ears with a welcome protective greeting.

``Very bad for our nerves, all this rush and hurry,'' said a fellowtraveller; ``give me the peace and quiet of

Crefton mentally surrendered his share of the desired commodity. A crowded, brilliantly overlighted

musichall, where an exuberant rendering of ``1812'' was being given by a strenuous orchestra, came nearest

``Heavens!'' exclaimed the aunt of Clovis, ``here's some one I know bearing down on us. I can't remember his

name, but he lunched with us once in Town. Tarringtonyes, that's it. He's heard of the picnic I'm giving

for the Princess, and he'll cling to me like a lifebelt till I give him an invitation; then he'll ask if he may bring

all his wives and mothers and sisters with him. That's the worst of these small wateringplaces; one can't

``I'll fight a rearguard action for you if you like to do a bolt now,'' volunteered Clovis; ``you've a clear ten

The aunt of Clovis responded gamely to the suggestion, and churned away like a Nile steamer, with a long

``Pretend you don't know him,'' was her parting advice, tinged with the reckless courage of the

The next moment the overtures of an affably disposed gentleman were being received by Clovis with a

``silentuponapeakinDarien'' stare which denoted an absence of all previous acquaintance with the

``I expect you don't know me with my moustache,'' said the newcomer; ``I've only grown it during the last

``On the contrary,'' said Clovis, ``the moustache is the only thing about you that seemed familiar to me. I felt

``A very useful kind of name,'' said Clovis; ``with a name of that sort no one would blame you if you did

nothing in particular heroic or remarkable, would they? And yet if you were to raise a troop of light horse in a

moment of national emergency, `Tarrington's Light Horse' would sound quite appropriate and

pulsequickening; whereas if you were called Spoopin, for instance, the thing would be out of the question.

No one, even in a moment of national emergency, could possibly belong to Spoopin's Horse.''

The newcomer smiled weakly, as one who is not to be put off by mere flippancy, and began again with

``I shall,'' said Clovis, with an air of immense sincerity. ``My aunt was asking me only this morning to

suggest names for four young owls she's just had sent her as pets. I shall call them all Tarrington; then if one

or two of them die or fly away, or leave us in any of the ways that pet owls are prone to, there will be always

one or two left to carry on your name. And my aunt won't let me forget it; she will always be asking `Have

the Tarringtons had their mice?' and questions of that sort. She says if you keep wild creatures in captivity

``I met you at luncheon at your aunt's house once'' broke in Mr. Tarrington, pale but still resolute.

``My aunt never lunches,'' said Clovis; ``she belongs to the National AntiLuncheon League, which is doing

quite a lot of good work in a quiet, unobtrusive way. A subscription of half a crown per quarter entitles you to

``I perfectly well remember meeting you at a luncheonparty given by your aunt,'' persisted Tarrington, who

``How nice of you to remember my aunt when you can no longer recall the names of the things you ate. Now

my memory works quite differently. I can remember a menu long after I've forgotten the hostess that

accompanied it. When I was seven years old I recollect being given a peach at a gardenparty by some

Duchess or other; I can't remember a thing about her, except that I imagine our acquaintance must have been

of the slightest, as she called me a `nice little boy,' but I have unfading memories of that peach. It was one of

those exuberant peaches that meet you halfway, so to speak, and are all over you in a moment. It was a

beautiful unspoiled product of a hothouse, and yet it managed quite successfully to give itself the airs of a

compote. You had to bite it and imbibe it at the same time. To me there has always been something charming

and mystic in the thought of that delicate velvet globe of fruit, slowly ripening and warming to perfection

through the long summer days and perfumed nights, and then coming suddenly athwart my life in the

supreme moment of its existence. I can never forget it, even if I wished to. And when I had devoured all that

was edible of it, there still remained the stone, which a heedless, thoughtless child would doubtless have

thrown away; I put it down the neck of a young friend who was wearing a very de'collete' sailor suit. I told

him it was a scorpion, and from the way he wriggled and screamed he evidently believed it, though where the

silly kid imagined I could procure a live scorpion at a gardenparty I don't know. Altogether, that peach is for

The defeated Tarrington had by this time retreated out of earshot, comforting himself as best he might with

the reflection that a picnic which included the presence of Clovis might prove a doubtfully agreeable

``I shall certainly go in for a Parliamentary career,'' said Clovis to himself as he turned complacently to rejoin

In the fading light of a close dull autumn afternoon Martin Stoner plodded his way along muddy lanes and

rutseamed cart tracks that led he knew not exactly whither. Somewhere in front of him, he fancied, lay the

sea, and towards the sea his footsteps seemed persistently turning; why he was struggling wearily forward to

that goal he could scarcely have explained, unless he was possessed by the same instinct that turns a

hardpressed stag cliffward in its last extremity. In his case the hounds of Fate were certainly pressing him

with unrelenting insistence; hunger, fatigue, and despairing hopelessness had numbed his brain, and he could

scarcely summon sufficient energy to wonder what underlying impulse was driving him onward. Stoner was

one of those unfortunate individuals who seem to have tried everything; a natural slothfulness and

improvidence had always intervened to blight any chance of even moderate success, and now he was at the

end of his tether, and there was nothing more to try. Desperation had not awakened in him any dormant

reserve of energy; on the contrary, a mental torpor grew up round the crisis of his fortunes. With the clothes

he stood up in, a halfpenny in his pocket, and no single friend or acquaintance to turn to, with no prospect

either of a bed for the night or a meal for the morrow, Martin Stoner trudged stolidly forward, between moist

hedgerows and beneath dripping trees, his mind almost a blank, except that he was subconsciously aware that

somewhere in front of him lay the sea. Another consciousness obtruded itself now and thenthe

knowledge that he was miserably hungry. Presently he came to a halt by an open gateway that led into a

spacious and rather neglected farmgarden; there was little sign of life about, and the farmhouse at the

further end of the garden looked chill and inhospitable. A drizzling rain, however, was setting in, and Stoner

thought that here perhaps he might obtain a few minutes' shelter and buy a glass of milk with his last

remaining coin. He turned slowly and wearily into the garden and followed a narrow, flagged path up to a

side door. Before he had time to knock the door opened and a bent, witheredlooking old man stood aside in

``Could I come in out of the rain?'' Stoner began, but the old man interrupted him.

Stoner lurched across the threshold and stood staring uncomprehendingly at the other.

``Sit down while I put you out a bit of supper,'' said the old man with quavering eagerness. Stoner's legs gave

way from very weariness, and he sank inertly into the armchair that had been pushed up to him. In another

minute he was devouring the cold meat, cheese, and bread, that had been placed on the table at his side.

``You'm little changed these four years,'' went on the old man, in a voice that sounded to Stoner as something

in a dream, far away and inconsequent; ``but you'll find us a deal changed, you will. There's no one about the

place same as when you left; nought but me and your old Aunt. I'll go and tell her that you'm come; she won't

be seeing you, but she'll let you stay right enough. She always did say if you was to come back you should

The old man placed a mug of beer on the table in front of Stoner and then hobbled away down a long

passage. The drizzle of rain had changed to a furious lashing downpour, which beat violently against door

and windows. The wanderer thought with a shudder of what the seashore must look like under this

drenching rainfall, with night beating down on all sides. He finished the food and beer and sat numbly

waiting for the return of his strange host. As the minutes ticked by on the grandfather clock in the corner a

new hope began to flicker and grow in the young man's mind; it was merely the expansion of his former

craving for food and a few minutes' rest into a longing to find a night's shelter under this seemingly

hospitable roof. A clattering of footsteps down the passage heralded the old farm servant's return.

``The old Missus won't see you, Master Tom, but she says you are to stay. 'Tis right enough, seeing the farm

will be yours when she be put under earth. I've had a fire lit in your room, Master Tom, and the maids has put

fresh sheets on to the bed. You'll find nought changed up there. Maybe you'm tired and would like to go there

Without a word Martin Stoner rose heavily to his feet and followed his ministering angel along a passage, up

a short creaking stair, along another passage, and into a large room lit with a cheerfully blazing fire. There

was but little furniture, plain, oldfashioned, and good of its kind; a stuffed squirrel in a case and a

wallcalendar of four years ago were about the only symptoms of decoration. But Stoner had eyes for little

else than the bed, and could scarce wait to tear his clothes off him before rolling in a luxury of weariness into

its comfortable depths. The hounds of Fate seemed to have checked for a brief moment.

In the cold light of morning Stoner laughed mirthlessly as he slowly realized the position in which he found

himself. Perhaps he might snatch a bit of breakfast on the strength of his likeness to this other missing

neerdowell, and get safely away before any one discovered the fraud that had been thrust on him. In the

room downstairs he found the bent old man ready with a dish of bacon and fried eggs for ``Master Tom's''

breakfast, while a hardfaced elderly maid brought in a teapot and poured him out a cup of tea. As he sat at

``'Tis old Bowker's pup,'' explained the old man, whom the hardfaced maid had addressed as George. ``She

was main fond of you; never seemed the same after you went away to Australee. She died 'bout a year agone.

Stoner found it difficult to regret her decease; as a witness for identification she would have left something to

``You'll go for a ride, Master Tom?'' was the next startling proposition that came from the old man. ``We've a

nice little roan cob that goes well in saddle. Old Biddy is getting a bit up in years, though 'er goes well still,

``I've got no riding things,'' stammered the castaway, almost laughing as he looked down at his one suit of

``Master Tom,'' said the old man earnestly, almost with an offended air, ``all your things is just as you left

them. A bit of airing before the fire an' they'll be all right. 'Twill be a bit of a distraction like, a little riding

and wildfowling now and agen. You'll find the folk around here has hard and bitter minds towards you.

They hasn't forgotten nor forgiven. No one'll come nigh you, so you'd best get what distraction you can with

Old George hobbled away to give his orders, and Stoner, feeling more than ever like one in a dream, went

upstairs to inspect ``Master Tom's'' wardrobe. A ride was one of the pleasures dearest to his heart, and there

was some protection against immediate discovery of his imposture in the thought that none of Tom's

aforetime companions were likely to favour him with a close inspection. As the interloper thrust himself into

some tolerably wellfitting riding cords he wondered vaguely what manner of misdeed the genuine Tom had

committed to set the whole countryside against him. The thud of quick, eager hoofs on damp earth cut short

``Talk of beggars on horseback,'' thought Stoner to himself, as he trotted rapidly along the muddy lanes where

he had tramped yesterday as a downatheel outcast; and then he flung reflection indolently aside and gave

himself up to the pleasure of a smart canter along the turfgrown side of a level stretch of road. At an open

gateway he checked his pace to allow two carts to turn into a field. The lads driving the carts found time to

give him a prolonged stare, and as he passed on he heard an excited voice call out, ``'Tis Tom Prike! I

Evidently the likeness which had imposed at close quarters on a doddering old man was good enough to

In the course of his ride he met with ample evidence to confirm the statement that local folk had neither

forgotten nor forgiven the bygone crime which had come to him as a legacy from the absent Tom. Scowling

looks, mutterings, and nudgings greeted him whenever he chanced upon human beings; ``Bowker's pup,''

trotting placidly by his side, seemed the one element of friendliness in a hostile world.

As he dismounted at the side door he caught a fleeting glimpse of a gaunt, elderly woman peering at him

from behind the curtain of an upper window. Evidently this was his aunt by adoption.

Over the ample midday meal that stood in readiness for him Stoner was able to review the possibilities of his

extraordinary situation. The real Tom, after four years of absence, might suddenly turn up at the farm, or a

letter might come from him at any moment. Again, in the character of heir to the farm, the false Tom might

be called on to sign documents, which would be an embarrassing predicament. Or a relative might arrive who

would not imitate the aunt's attitude of aloofness. All these things would mean ignominious exposure. On the

other hand, the alternatives was the open sky and the muddy lanes that led down to the sea. The farm offered

him, at any rate, a temporary refuge from destitution; farming was one of the many things he had ``tried,'' and

he would be able to do a certain amount of work in return for the hospitality to which he was so little entitled.

``Will you have cold pork for your supper,'' asked the hardfaced maid, as she cleared the table, ``or will you

``Hot, with onions,'' said Stoner. It was the only time in his life that he had made a rapid decision. And as he

Stoner kept rigidly to those portions of the house which seemed to have been allotted to him by a tacit treaty

of delimitation. When he took part in the farmwork it was as one who worked under orders and never

initiated them. Old George, the roan cob, and Bowker's pup were his sole companions in a world that was

otherwise frostily silent and hostile. Of the mistress of the farm he saw nothing. Once, when he knew she had

gone forth to church, he made a furtive visit to the farm parlour in an endeavour to glean some fragmentary

knowledge of the young man whose place he had usurped, and whose illrepute he had fastened on himself.

There were many photographs hung on the walls, or stuck in prim frames, but the likeness he sought for was

not among them. At last, in an album thrust out of sight, he came across what he wanted. There was a whole

series, labelled ``Tom,'' a podgy child of three, in a fantastic frock, an awkward boy of about twelve, holding

a cricket bat as though be loathed it, a rather goodlooking youth of eighteen with very smooth, evenly parted

hair, and, finally, a young man with a somewhat surly daredevil expression. At this last portrait Stoner

From the lips of old George, who was garrulous enough on most subjects, he tried again and again to learn

something of the nature of the offence which shut him off as a creature to be shunned and hated by hiss

``What do the folk around here say about me?'' he asked one day as they were walking home from an outlying

``They be bitter agen you, mortal bitter. Ay, 'tis a sad business, a sad business.''

On a clear frosty evening, a few days before the festival of Christmas, Stoner stood in a corner of the orchard

which commanded a wide view of the countryside. Here and there he could see the twinkling dots of lamp or

candle glow which told of human homes where the goodwill and jollity of the season held their sway. Behind

him lay the grim, silent farmhouse, where no one ever laughed, where even a quarrel would have seemed

cheerful. As he turned to look at the long grey front of the gloomshadowed building, a door opened and old

George came hurriedly forth. Stoner heard his adopted name called in a tone of strained anxiety. Instantly be

knew that something untoward had happened, and with a quick revulsion of outlook his sanctuary became in

``Master Tom,'' said the old man in a hoarse whisper, ``you must slip away quiet from here for a few days.

Michael Ley is back in the village, an' he swears to shoot you if he can come across you. He'll do it, too,

there's murder in the look of him. Get away under cover of night, 'tis only for a week or so, he won't be here

``But where am I to go?'' stammered Stoner, who had caught the infection of the old man's obvious terror.

``Go right away along the coast to Punchford and keep hid there. When Michael's safe gone I'll ride the roan

over to the Green Dragon at Punchford; when you see the cob stabled at the Green Dragon 'tis a sign you may

``'Tis all right for money,'' said the other; ``the old Missus agrees you'd best do as I say, and she's given me

Stoner felt more of a cheat than ever as he stole away that night from the back gate of the farm with the old

woman's money in his pocket. Old George and Bowker's pup stood watching him a silent farewell from the

yard. He could scarcely fancy that he would ever come back, and he felt a throb of compunction for those two

humble friends who would wait wistfully for his return. Some day perhaps the real Tom would come back,

and there would be wild wonderment among those simple farm folks as to the identity of the shadowy guest

they had harboured under their roof. For his own fate he felt no immediate anxiety; three pounds goes but

little way in the world when there is nothing behind it, but to a man who has counted his exchequer in

pennies it seems a good startingpoint. Fortune had done him a whimsically kind turn when last he trod these

lanes as a hopeless adventurer, and there might yet be a chance of his finding some work and making a fresh

start; as he got further from the farm his spirits rose higher. There was a sense of relief in regaining once

more his lost identity and ceasing to be the uneasy ghost of another. He scarcely bothered to speculate about

the implacable enemy who had dropped from nowhere into his life; since that life was now behind him one

unreal item the more made little difference. For the first time for many months he began to hum a careless

lighthearted refrain. Then there stepped out from the shadow of an overhanging oak tree a man with a gun.

There was no need to wonder who he might be; the moonlight falling on his white set face revealed a glare of

human hate such as Stoner in the ups and downs of his wanderings had never seen before. He sprang aside in

a wild effort to break through the hedge that bordered the lane, but the tough branches held him fast. The

hounds of Fate had waited for him in those narrow lanes, and this time they were not to be denied.

Clovis sat in the hottest zone but two of a Turkish bath, alternately inert in statuesque contemplation and

``Don't interrupt me with your childish prattle,'' he observed to Bertie van Tahn, who had slung himself

languidly into a neighbouring chair and looked conversationally inclined; ``I'm writing deathless verse.''

``I say, what a boon you would be to portrait painters if you really got to be notorious as a poetry writer. If

they couldn't get your likeness hung in the Academy as `Clovis Sangrail, Esq., at work on his latest poem,'

they could slip you in as a Study of the Nude or Orpheus descending into Jermyn Street. They always

``It was Mrs. Packletide's suggestion that I should write this thing,'' said Clovis, ignoring the bypaths to fame

that Bertie van Tahn was pointing out to him. ``You see, Loona Bimberton had a Coronation Ode accepted by

the New Infancy, a paper that has been started with the idea of making the New Age seem elder and

hidebound. `So clever of you, dear Loona,' the Packletide remarked when she had read it; `of course, any one

could write a Coronation Ode, but no one else would have thought of doing it.' Loona protested that these

things were extremely difficult to do, and gave us to understand that they were more or less the province of a

gifted few. Now the Packletide has been rather decent to me in many ways, a sort of financial ambulance, you

know, that carries you off the field when you're hard hit, which is a frequent occurrence with me, and I've no

use whatever for Loona Bimberton, so I chipped in and said I could turn out that sort of stuff by the square

yard if I gave my mind to it. Loona said I couldn't, and we got bets on, and between you and me I think the

money's fairly safe. Of course, one of the conditions of the wager is that the thing has to be published in

something or other, local newspapers barred; but Mrs. Packletide has endeared herself by many little acts of

thoughtfulness to the editor of the Smoky Chimney, so if I can hammer out anything at all approaching the

level of the usual Ode output we ought to be all right. So far I'm getting along so comfortably that I begin to

``Of course,'' said Clovis; ``this is going to be a Durbar Recessional, the sort of thing that you can keep by

``Now I understand your choice of a place to write it in,'' said Bertie van Tahn, with the air of one who has

suddenly unravelled a hitherto obscure problem; ``you want to get the local temperature.''

``I came here to get freedom from the inane interruptions of the mentally deficient,'' said Clovis, ``but it

Bertie van Tahn prepared to use his towel as a weapon of precision, but reflecting that he had a good deal of

unprotected coastline himself, and that Clovis was equipped with a fountainpen as well as a towel, he

``May one hear extracts from the immortal work?'' he asked. ``I promise that nothing that I hear now shall

prejudice me against borrowing a copy of the Smoky Chimney at the right moment.''

``It's rather like casting pearls into a trough,'' remarked Clovis pleasantly, ``but I don't mind reading you bits

`` `Back to their homes in Himalayan heights The stale pale elephants of Cutch Behar Roll like great galleons

``I don't believe Cutch Behar is anywhere near the Himalayan region,'' interrupted Bertie. ``You ought to

``After the late hours and the excitement, of course,'' said Clovis; ``and I said their homes were in the

Himalayas. You can have Himalayan elephants in Cutch Behar, I suppose, just as you have Irishbred horses

``Well, they would naturally be sent home to recuperate. It's the usual thing out there to turn elephants loose

Clovis could at least flatter himself that he had infused some of the reckless splendour of the East into his

``That seems so cowardly; however, it explains why you pitched on Cutch Behar.''

``There is more connection between geographical placenames and poetical inspiration than is generally

recognized; one of the chief reasons why there are so few really great poems about Russia in our language is

that you can't possibly get a rhyme to names like Smolensk and Tobolsk and Minsk.''

``Of course, you could rhyme Omsk with Tomsk,'' he continued; ``in fact, they seem to be there for that

``The public will stand a good deal,'' said Bertie malevolently, ``and so small a proportion of it knows

Russian that you could always have an explanatory footnote asserting that the last three letters in Smolensk

are not pronounced. It's quite as believable as your statement about putting elephants out to grass in the

``I've got rather a nice bit,'' resumed Clovis with unruffled serenity, ``giving an evening scene on the outskirts

`` `Where the coiled cobra in the gloaming gloats, And prowling panthers stalk the wary goats.' ''

``There is practically no gloaming in tropical countries,'' said Bertie indulgently; ``but I like the masterly

reticence with which you treat the cobra's motive for gloating. The unknown is proverbially the uncanny. I

can picture nervous readers of the Smoky Chimney keeping the light turned on in their bedrooms all night out

of sheer sickening uncertainty as to what the cobra might have been gloating about.''

``Cobras gloat naturally,'' said Clovis, ``just as wolves are always ravening from mere force of habit, even

after they've hopelessly overeaten themselves. I've got a fine bit of colour painting later on,'' he added,

`` `The amber dawndrenched East with sunshafts kissed, Stained sanguine apricot and amethyst, O'er the

washed emerald of the mango groves Hangs in a mist of opalescent mauves, While painted parrotflights

``I've never seen the dawn come up over the Brahmaputra river,'' said Bertie, ``so I can't say if it's a good

description of the event, but it sounds more like an account of an extensive jewel robbery. Anyhow, the

parrots give a good useful touch of local colour. I suppose you've introduced some tigers into the scenery? An

Indian landscape would have rather a bare, unfinished look without a tiger or two in the middle distance.''

``I've got a hentiger somewhere in the poem,'' said Clovis, hunting through his notes. ``Here she is:

`` `The tawny tigress 'mid the tangled teak Drags to her purring cubs' enraptured ears The harsh deathrattle

Bertie van Tahn rose hurriedly from his recumbent position and made for the glass door leading into the next

``I think your idea of home life in the jungle is perfectly horrid,'' he said. ``The cobra was sinister enough, but

the improvised rattle in the tigernursery is the limit. If you're going to make me turn hot and cold all over I

``Just listen to this line,'' said Clovis; ``it would make the reputation of any ordinary poet:

``Most of your readers will think `punkah' is a kind of iced drink or halftime at polo,'' said Bertie, and

The Smoky Chimney duly published the ``Recessional,'' but it proved to be its swan song, for the paper never

Loona Bimberton gave up her intention of attending the Durbar and went into a nursinghome on the Sussex

Downs. Nervous breakdown after a particularly strenuous season was the usually accepted explanation, but

there are three or four people who know that she never really recovered from the dawn breaking over the

It was the eve of the great race, and scarcely a member of Lady Susan's houseparty had as yet a single bet

on. It was one of those unsatisfactory years when one horse held a commanding market position, not by

reason of any general belief in its crushing superiority, but because it was extremely difficult to pitch on any

other candidate to whom to pin ones faith. Peradventure II was the favourite, not in the sense of being a

popular fancy, but by virtue of a lack of confidence in any one of his rather undistinguished rivals. The brains

of clubland were much exercised in seeking out possible merit where none was very obvious to the naked

intelligence, and the houseparty at Lady Susan's was possessed by the same uncertainty and irresolution that

The women of the party were just as keenly interested in the matter, and just as helplessly perplexed; even the

mother of Clovis, who usually got good racing information from her dressmaker, confessed herself fancy free

on this occasion. Colonel Drake, who was professor of military history at a minor cramming establishment,

was the only person who had a definite selection for the event, but as his choice varied every three hours he

was worse than useless as an inspired guide. The crowning difficulty of the problem was that it could only be

fitfully and furtively discussed. Lady Susan disapproved of racing. She disapproved of many things; some

people went as far as to say that she disapproved of most things. Disapproval was to her what neuralgia and

fancy needlework are to many other women. She disapproved of early morning tea and auction bridge, of

skiing and the twostep, of the Russian ballet and the Chelsea Arts Club ball, of the French policy in

Morocco and the British policy everywhere. It was not that she was particularly strict or narrow in her views

of life, but she had been the eldest sister of a large family of selfindulgent children, and her particular form

of indulgence had consisted in openly disapproving of the foibles of the others. Unfortunately the hobby had

grown up with her. As she was rich, influential, and very, very kind, most people were content to count their

early tea as well lost on her behalf. Still, the necessity for hurriedly dropping the discussion of an enthralling

topic, and suppressing all mention of it during her presence on the scene, was an affliction at a moment like

the present, when time was slipping away and indecision was the prevailing note.

After a lunchtime of rather strangled and uneasy conversation, Clovis managed to get most of the party

together at the further end of the kitchen gardens, on the pretext of admiring the Himalayan pheasants. He

had made an important discovery. Motkin, the butler, who (as Clovis expressed it) had grown prematurely

grey in Lady Susan's service, added to his other excellent qualities an intelligent interest in matters connected

with the Turf. On the subject of the forthcoming race he was not illuminating, except in so far that he shared

the prevailing unwillingness to see a winner in Peradventure II. But where he outshone all the members of the

houseparty was in the fact that he had a second cousin who was head stablelad at a neighbouring racing

establishment, and usually gifted with much inside information as to private form and possibilities. Only the

fact of her ladyship having taken it into her head to invite a houseparty for the last week of May had

prevented Mr. Motkin from paying a visit of consultation to his relative with respect to the big race; there was

still time to cycle over if he could get leave of absence for the afternoon on some specious excuse.

``Let's jolly well hope he does,'' said Bertie van Tahn; ``under the circumstances a second cousin is almost as

``That stable ought to know something, if knowledge is to be found anywhere,'' said Mrs. Packletide

At this moment the subject had to be hastily dropped. Lady Susan bore down upon them, leaning on the arm

of Clovis's mother, to whom she was confiding the fact that she disapproved of the craze for Pekingese

spaniels. It was the third thing she had found time to disapprove of since lunch, without counting her silent

``We have been admiring the Himalayan pheasants,'' said Mrs. Packletide suavely.

``They went off to a birdshow at Nottingham early this morning,'' said Lady Susan, with the air of one who

``Their house, I mean; such perfect roosting arrangements, and all so clean,'' resumed Mrs. Packletide, with

an increased glow of enthusiasm. The odious Bertie van Tahn was murmuring audible prayers for Mrs.

``I hope you don't mind dinner being a quarter of an hour late tonight,'' said Lady Susan; ``Motkin has had an

urgent summons to go and see a sick relative this afternoon. He wanted to bicycle there, but I am sending him

``How very kind of you! Of course we don't mind dinner being put off.'' The assurances came with

At the dinnertable that night an undercurrent of furtive curiosity directed itself towards Motkin's impassive

countenance. One or two of the guests almost expected to find a slip of paper concealed in their napkins,

bearing the name of the second cousin's selection. They had not long to wait. As the butler went round with

the murmured question, ``Sherry?'' he added in an even lower tone the cryptic words, ``Better not.'' Mrs.

Packletide gave a start of alarm, and refused the sherry; there seemed some sinister suggestion in the butler's

warning, as though her hostess had suddenly become addicted to the Borgia habit. A moment later the

explanation flashed on her that ``Better Not'' was the name of one of the runners in the big race. Clovis was

already pencilling it on his cuff, and Colonel Drake, in his turn, was signalling to every one in hoarse

Early next morning a sheaf of telegrams went Townward, representing the market commands of the

It was a wet afternoon, and most of Lady Susan's guests hung about the hall, waiting apparently for the

appearance of tea, though it was scarcely yet due. The advent of a telegram quickened every one into a flutter

of expectancy; the page who brought the telegram to Clovis waited with unusual alertness to know if there

``No bad news, I hope,'' said Lady Susan. Every one else knew that the news was not good.

``It's only the result of the Derby,'' he blurted out; ``Sadowa won; an utter outsider.''

``Sadowa!'' exclaimed Lady Susan; ``you don't say so! How remarkable! It's the first time I've ever backed a

horse; in fact I disapprove of horseracing, but just for once in a way I put money on this horse, and it's gone

``May I ask,'' said Mrs. Packletide, amid the general silence, ``why you put your money on this particular

horse? None of the sporting prophets mentioned it as having an outside chance.''

``Well,'' said Lady Susan, ``you may laugh at me, but it was the name that attracted me. You see, I was

always mixed up with the FrancoGerman war; I was married on the day that the war was declared, and my

eldest child was born the day that peace was signed, so anything connected with the war has always interested

me. And when I saw there was a horse running in the Derby called after one of the battles in the

FrancoGerman war, I said I must put some money on it, for once in a way, though I disapprove of racing.

There was a general groan. No one groaned more deeply than the professor of military history.

Mrs. Riversedge, who had been snipping off the heads of defunct roses, and thinking of nothing in particular,

sprang hurriedly to mental attention. She was one of those oldfashioned hostesses who consider that one

ought to know something about one's guests, and that the something ought to be to their credit.

``I believe he comes from Leighton Buzzard,'' she observed by way of preliminary explanation.

``In these days of rapid and convenient travel,'' said Clovis, who was dispersing a colony of greenfly with

visitations of cigarette smoke, ``to come from Leighton Buzzard does not necessarily denote any great

strength of character. It might only mean mere restlessness. Now if he had left it under a cloud, or as a protest

against the incurable and heartless frivolity of its inhabitants, that would tell us something about the man and

``He edits the Cathedral Monthly,'' said her hostess, ``and he's enormously learned about memorial brasses

and transepts and the influence of Byzantine worship on modern liturgy, and all those sort of things. Perhaps

he is just a little bit heavy and immersed in one range of subjects, but it takes all sorts to make a good

``Dulness I could overlook,'' said the aunt of Clovis: ``what I cannot forgive is his making love to my maid.''

``My dear Mrs. Troyle,'' gasped the hostess, ``what an extraordinary idea! I assure you Mr. Brope would not

``His dreams are a matter of indifference to me; for all I care his slumbers may be one long indiscretion of

unsuitable erotic advances, in which the entire servants' hall may be involved. But in his waking hours he

shall not make love to my maid. It's no use arguing about it, I'm firm on the point.''

``But you must be mistaken,'' persisted Mrs. Riversedge; ``Mr. Brope would be the last person to do such a

``He is the first person to do such a thing, as far as my information goes, and if I have any voice in the matter

he certainly shall be the last. Of course, I am not referring to respectablyintentioned lovers.''

``I simply cannot think that a man who writes so charmingly and informingly about transepts and Byzantine

influences would behave in such an unprincipled manner,'' said Mrs. Riversedge; ``what evidence have you

that he's doing anything of the sort? I don't want to doubt your word, of course, but we mustn't be too ready to

``Whether we condemn him or not, he has certainly not been unheard. He has the room next to my

dressingroom, and on two occasions, when I dare say he thought I was absent, I have plainly heard him

announcing through the wall, `I love you, Florrie.' Those partition walls upstairs are very thin; one can almost

``What I mean is,'' said Mrs. Riversedge, ``that when I get maids with unsuitable names I call them Jane; they

``An excellent plan,'' said the aunt of Clovis coldly; ``unfortunately I have got used to being called Jane

``The question is not whether I'm to call my maid Florinda, but whether Mr. Brope is to be permitted to call

``He may have been repeating the words of some song,'' said Mrs. Riversedge hopefully; ``there are lots of

those sorts of silly refrains with girls' names,'' she continued, turning to Clovis as a possible authority on the

``I shouldn't think of doing so,'' Clovis assured her; ``in the first place, I've always understood that your name

``I mean there's a song with that refrain,'' hurriedly explained Mrs. Riversedge, ``and there's `Rhoda, Rhoda

kept a pagoda,' and `Maisie is a daisy,' and heaps of others. Certainly it doesn't sound like Mr. Brope to be

singing such songs, but I think we ought to give him the benefit of the doubt.''

``I had already done so,'' said Mrs. Troyle, ``until further evidence came my way.

She shut her lips with the resolute finality of one who enjoys the blessed certainty of being implored to open

``As I was coming upstairs after breakfast Mr. Brope was just passing my room. In the most natural way in

the world a piece of paper dropped out of a packet that he held in his hand and fluttered to the ground just at

my door. I was going to call out to him `You've dropped something,' and then for some reason I held back

and didn't show myself till he was safely in his room. You see it occurred to me that I was very seldom in my

room just at that hour, and that Florinda was almost always there tidying up things about that time. So I

Mrs. Troyle paused again, with the selfapplauding air of one who has detected an asp lurking in an

Mrs. Riversedge snipped vigorously at the nearest rose bush, incidentally decapitating a Viscountess

``Just the words in pencil, `I love you, Florrie,' and then underneath, crossed out with a faint line, but

``To think that a scandal of this sort should be going on under my roof!'' said Mrs. Riversedge indignantly.

``I wonder why it is that scandal seems so much worse under a roof,'' observed Clovis; ``I've always regarded

it as a proof of the superior delicacy of the cat tribe that it conducts most of its scandals above the slates.''

``Now I come to think of it,'' resumed Mrs. Riversedge, ``there are things about Mr. Brope that I've never

been able to account for. His income, for instance: he only gets two hundred a year as editor of the Cathedral

Monthly, and I know that his people are quite poor, and he hasn't any private means. Yet he manages to

afford a flat somewhere in Westminster, and he goes abroad to Bruges and those sorts of places every year,

and always dresses well, and gives quite nice luncheonparties in the season. You can't do all that on two

``No, you see he specializes so entirely on liturgy and ecclesiastical architecture that his field is rather

restricted. He once tried the Sporting and Dramatic with an article on church edifices in famous foxhunting

centres, but it wasn't considered of sufficient general interest to be accepted. No, I don't see how he can

``Perhaps he sells spurious transepts to American enthusiasts,'' suggested Clovis.

``How could you sell a transept?'' said Mrs. Riversedge; ``such a thing would be impossible.''

``Whatever he may do to eke out his income,'' interrupted Mrs. Troyle, ``he is certainly not going to fill in his

``Of course not,'' agreed her hostess; ``that must be put a stop to at once. But I don't quite know what we

``You might put a barbed wire entanglement round the yew tree as a precautionary measure,'' said Clovis.

``I don't think that the disagreeable situation that has arisen is improved by flippancy,'' said Mrs. Riversedge;

``I am sure I don't know what I should do without Florinda,'' admitted Mrs. Troyle; ``she understands my

hair. I've long ago given up trying to do anything with it myself. I regard one's hair as I regard husbands: as

long as one is seen together in public one's private divergences don't matter. Surely that was the luncheon

Septimus Brope and Clovis had the smokingroom to themselves after lunch. The former seemed restless and

``What is a lorry?'' asked Septimus suddenly; ``I don't mean the thing on wheels, of course I know what that

is, but isn't there a bird with a name like that, the larger form of a lorikeet?''

``I fancy it's a lory, with one `r,' '' said Clovis lazily, ``in which case it's no good to you.''

``How do you mean, no good to me?'' he asked, with more than a trace of uneasiness in his voice.

``How did you find out? I mean how did you know I was trying to get a rhyme to Florrie?'' he asked sharply.

``I didn't know,'' said Clovis, ``I only guessed. When you wanted to turn the prosaic lorry of commerce into a

feathered poem flitting through the verdure of a tropical forest, I knew you must be working up a sonnet, and

``There! I felt certain I'd dropped it somewhere. But you must have guessed something before. Look here,

you have surprised my secret. You won't give me away, will you? It is nothing to be ashamed of, but it

wouldn't do for the editor of the Cathedral Monthly to go in openly for that sort of thing, would it?''

``You see,'' continued Septimus, ``I get quite a decent lot of money out of it. I could never live in the style I

Clovis was even more startled than Septimus had been earlier in the conversation, but he was better skilled in

``Not out of Florrie, as yet,'' said Septimus; ``in fact, I don't mind saying that I'm having a good deal of

``This is very interesting,'' he said slowly. And then, with Septimus Brope's next words, illumination dawned

That was one of my earliest successes, and it still brings me in royalties. And then there is`Esmeralda,

when I first beheld her,' and `Fair Teresa, how I love to please her,' both of those have been fairly popular.

And there is one rather dreadful one,'' continued Septimus, flushing deep carmine, ``which has brought me in

Of course, I loathe the whole lot of them; in fact, I'm rapidly becoming something of a womanhater under

their influence, but I can't afford to disregard the financial aspect of the matter. And at the same time you can

understand that my position as an authority on ecclesiastical architecture and liturgical subjects would be

weakened, if not altogether ruined, if it once got about that I was the author of `Cora with the lips of coral'

Clovis had recovered sufficiently to ask in a sympathetic, if rather unsteady, voice what was the special

``I can't get her into lyric shape, try as I will,'' said Septimus mournfully. ``You see, one has to work in a lot

of sentimental, sugary compliment with a catchy rhyme, and a certain amount of personal biography or

prophecy. They've all of them got to have a long string of past successes recorded about them, or else you've

got to foretell blissful things about them and yourself in the future. For instance, there is:

`` `Dainty little girlie Mavis, She is such a rara avis. All the money I can save is All to be for Mavis mine.'

It goes to a sickening nambypamby waltz tune, and for months nothing else was sung and hummed in

``Please excuse me,'' he gurgled, ``but I can't help it when I remember the awful solemnity of that article of

yours that you so kindly read us last night, on the Coptic Church in its relation to early Christian worship.''

``You see how it would be,'' he said; ``as soon as people knew me to be the author of that miserable

sentimental twaddle, all respect for the serious labours of my life would be gone. I dare say I know more

about memorial brasses than any one living, in fact I hope one day to publish a monograph on the subject, but

I should be pointed out everywhere as the man whose ditties were in the mouths of nigger minstrels along the

entire coastline of our Island home. Can you wonder that I positively hate Florrie all the time that I'm trying

``Why not give free play to your emotions, and be brutally abusive? An uncomplimentary refrain would have

``I've never thought of that,'' said Septimus, ``and I'm afraid I couldn't break away from the habit of fulsome

``You needn't change your style in the least,'' said Clovis; ``merely reverse the sentiment and keep to the

inane phraseology of the thing. If you'll do the body of the song I'll knock off the refrain, which is the thing

that principally matters, I believe. I shall charge halfshares in the royalties, and throw in my silence as to

your guilty secret. In the eyes of the world you shall still be the man who has devoted his life to the study of

transepts and Byzantine ritual; only sometimes, in the long winter evenings, when the wind howls drearily

down the chimney and the rain beats against the windows, I shall think of you as the author of `Cora with the

lips of coral.' Of course, if in sheer gratitude at my silence you like to take me for a muchneeded holiday to

the Adriatic or somewhere equally interesting, paying all expenses, I shouldn't dream of refusing.''

Later in the afternoon Clovis found his aunt and Mrs. Riversedge indulging in gentle exercise in the Jacobean

``How splendid of you! What did he say?'' came in a quick chorus from the two ladies.

``He was quite frank and straightforward with me when he saw that I knew his secret,'' said Clovis, ``and it

seems that his intentions were quite serious, if slightly unsuitable. I tried to show him the impracticability of

the course that he was following. He said he wanted to be understood, and he seemed to think that Florinda

would excel in that requirement, but I pointed out that there were probably dozens of delicately nurtured,

purehearted young English girls who would be capable of understanding him, while Florinda was the only

person in the world who understood my aunt's hair. That rather weighed with him, for he's not really a selfish

animal, if you take him in the right way, and when I appealed to the memory of his happy childish days, spent

amid the daisied fields of Leighton Buzzard (I suppose daisies do grow there), he was obviously affected.

Anyhow, he gave me his word that he would put Florinda absolutely out of his mind, and he has agreed to go

for a short trip abroad as the best distraction for his thoughts. I am going with him as far as Ragusa. If my

aunt should wish to give me a really nice scarfpin (to be chosen by myself), as a small recognition of the

very considerable service I had done her, I shouldn't dream of refusing. I'm not one of those who think that

A few weeks later in Blackpool and places where they sing, the following refrain held undisputed sway:

``How you bore me, Florrie, With those eyes of vacant blue; You'll be very sorry, Florrie, If I marry you.

Though I'm easygoin', Florrie, This I swear is true, I'll throw you down a quarry, Florrie, If I marry you.''

Although he was scarcely yet out of his teens, the Duke of Scaw was already marked out as a personality

widely differing from others of his caste and period. Not in externals; therein he conformed correctly to type.

His hair was faintly reminiscent of Houbigant, and at the other end of him his shoes exhaled the right

soupc,on of harnessroom; his socks compelled one's attention without losing one's respect; and his attitude

in repose had just that suggestion of Whistler's mother, so becoming in the really young. It was within that

the trouble lay, if trouble it could be accounted, which marked him apart from his fellows. The Duke was

religious. Not in any of the ordinary senses of the word; he took small heed of High Church or Evangelical

standpoints, he stood outside of all the movements and missions and cults and crusades of the day, uncaring

and uninterested. Yet in a mysticalpractical way of his own, which had served him unscathed and unshaken

through the fickle years of boyhood, he was intensely and intensively religious. His family were naturally,

though unobtrusively, distressed about it. ``I am so afraid it may affect his bridge,'' said his mother.

The Duke sat in a pennyworth of chair in St. James's Park, listening to the pessimisms of Belturbet, who

``Where I think you political spadeworkers are so silly,'' said the Duke, ``is in the misdirection of your

efforts. You spend thousands of pounds of money, and Heaven knows how much dynamic force of brain

power and personal energy, in trying to elect or displace this or that man, whereas you could gain your ends

so much more simply by making use of the men as you find them. If they don't suit your purpose as they are,

``Do you refer to hypnotic suggestion?'' asked Belturbet, with the air of one who is being trifled with.

``Nothing of the sort. Do you understand what I mean by the verb to koepenick? That is to say, to replace an

authority by a spurious imitation that would carry just as much weight for the moment as the displaced

original; the advantage, of course, being that the koepenick replica would do what you wanted, whereas the

``I suppose every public man has a double, if not two or three,'' said Belturbet; ``but it would be a pretty hard

task to koepenick a whole bunch of them and keep the originals out of the way.''

``There have been instances in European history of highly successful koepenickery,'' said the Duke dreamily.

``Oh, of course, there have been False Dimitris and Perkin Warbecks, who imposed on the world for a time,''

assented Belturbet, ``but they personated people who were dead or safely out of the way. That was a

comparatively simple matter. It would be far easier to pass oneself off as dead Hannibal than as living

``I was thinking,'' said the Duke, ``of the most famous case of all, the angel who koepenicked King Robert of

Sicily with such brilliant results. Just imagine what an advantage it would be to have angels deputizing, to use

a horrible but convenient word, for Quinston and Lord Hugo Sizzle, for example. How much smoother the

``Now you're talking nonsense,'' said Belturbet; ``angels don't exist nowadays, at least, not in that way, so

what is the use of dragging them into a serious discussion? It's merely silly.''

``Do what?'' asked Belturbet. There were times when his young friend's uncanny remarks rather frightened

``I shall summon angelic forces to take over some of the more troublesome personalities of our public life,

and I shall send the ousted originals into temporary retirement in suitable animal organisms. It's not every one

``Oh, stop that inane rubbish,'' said Belturbet angrily; ``it's getting wearisome. Here's Quinston coming,'' he

added, as there approached along the almost deserted path the wellknown figure of a young Cabinet

Minister, whose personality evoked a curious mixture of public interest and unpopularity.

``Hurry along, my dear man,'' said the young Duke to the Minister, who had given him a condescending nod;

``your time is running short,'' he continued in a provocative strain; ``the whole inept crowd of you will shortly

``You poor little strawberryleafed nonentity,'' said the Minister, checking himself for a moment in his stride

and rolling out his words spasmodically; ``who is going to sweep us away, I should like to know? The voting

masses are on our side, and all the ability and administrative talent is on our side too. No power of earth or

Heaven is going to move us from our place till we choose to quit it. No power of earth or''

Belturbet saw, with bulging eyes, a sudden void where a moment earlier had been a Cabinet Minister; a void

emphasized rather than relieved by the presence of a puffedout bewilderedlooking sparrow, which hopped

about for a moment in a dazed fashion and then fell to a violent cheeping and scolding.

``If we could understand sparrowlanguage,'' said the Duke serenely, ``I fancy we should hear something

``But good Heavens, Euge`ne,'' said Belturbet hoarsely, ``what has become of Why, there he is! How on

earth did he get there?'' And he pointed with a shaking finger towards a semblance of the vanished Minister,

``It is Quinston to all outward appearance,'' he said composedly, ``but I fancy you will find, on closer

``I don't suppose you'd care to change places with poor little us,'' replied the Duke chaffingly.

``How about poor little me?'' said the Angel modestly. ``I've got to run about behind the wheels of popularity,

like a spotted dog behind a carriage, getting all the dust and trying to look as if I was an important part of the

The AngelthathadbeenQuinston smiled and passed on his way, pursued across the breadth of the Horse

Guards Parade by a tiresome little sparrow that cheeped incessantly and furiously at him.

``That's only the beginning,'' said the Duke complacently; ``I've made it operative with all of them,

Belturbet made no coherent reply; he was engaged in feeling his pulse. The Duke fixed his attention with

some interest on a black swan that was swimming with haughty, stiffnecked aloofness amid the crowd of

lesser waterfowl that dotted the ornamental water. For all its pride of bearing, something was evidently

ruffling and enraging it; in its way it seemed as angry and amazed as the sparrow had been.

At the same moment a human figure came along the pathway. Belturbet looked up apprehensively.

``An AngelKedzon, if I am not mistaken,'' said the Duke. ``Look, he is talking affably to a human being.

A shabbily dressed lounger had accosted the man who had been Viceroy in the splendid East, and who still

``Could you tell me, sir, if them white birds is storks or halbatrosses? I had an argyment''

``Those are pelicans, my dear sir. Are you interested in birds? If you would join me in a bun and a glass of

milk at the stall yonder, I could tell you some interesting things about Indian birds. Right oh! Now the

The two men disappeared in the direction of the bun stall, chatting volubly as they went, and shadowed from

the other side of the railed enclosure by a black swan, whose temper seemed to have reached the limit of

Belturbet gazed in an openmouthed wonder after the retreating couple, then transferred his attention to the

infuriated swan, and finally turned with a look of scared comprehension at his young friend lolling

unconcernedly in his chair. There was no longer any room to doubt what was happening. The ``silly talk'' had

``I think a prairie oyster on the top of a stiffish brandyandsoda might save my reason,'' said Belturbet

It was late in the day before he could steady his nerves sufficiently to glance at the evening papers. The

Parliamentary report proved significant reading, and confirmed the fears that he had been trying to shake off.

Mr. Ap Dave, the Chancellor, whose lively controversial style endeared him to his supporters and embittered

him, politically speaking, to his opponents, had risen in his place to make an unprovoked apology for having

alluded in a recent speech to certain protesting taxpayers as ``skulkers.'' He had realized on reflection that

they were in all probability perfectly honest in their inability to understand certain legal technicalities of the

new finance laws. The House had scarcely recovered from this sensation when Lord Hugo Sizzle caused a

further flutter of astonishment by going out of his way to indulge in an outspoken appreciation of the fairness,

loyalty, and straightforwardness not only of the Chancellor, but of all the members of the Cabinet. A wit had

gravely suggested moving the adjournment of the House in view of the unexpected circumstances that had

Belturbet anxiously skimmed over a further item of news printed immediately below the Parliamentary

``Now I wonder which of them'' he mused, and then an appalling idea came to him. ``Supposing he's put

Belturbet was known in his club as a strictly moderate drinker; his consumption of alcoholic stimulants that

The events of the next few days were piquantly bewildering to the world at large; to Belturbet, who knew

dimly what was happening, the situation was fraught with recurring alarms. The old saying that in politics it's

the unexpected that always happens received a justification that it had hitherto somewhat lacked, and the

epidemic of startling personal changes of front was not wholly confined to the realm of actual politics. The

eminent chocolate magnate, Sadbury, whose antipathy to the Turf and everything connected with it was a

matter of general knowledge, had evidently been replaced by an AngelSadbury, who proceeded to electrify

the public by blossoming forth as an owner of racehorses, giving as a reason his matured conviction that the

sport was, after all, one which gave healthy openair recreation to large numbers of people drawn from all

classes of the community, and incidentally stimulated the important industry of horsebreeding. His colours,

chocolate and cream hoops spangled with pink stars, promised to become as popular as any on the Turf. At

the same time, in order to give effect to his condemnation of the evils resulting from the spread of the

gambling habit among wageearning classes, who lived for the most part from hand to mouth, he suppressed

all betting news and tipsters' forecasts in the popular evening paper that was under his control. His action

received instant recognition and support from the Angelproprietor of the Evening Views, the principal rival

evening halfpenny paper, who forthwith issued an ukase decreeing a similar ban on betting news, and in a

short while the regular evening Press was purged of all mention of starting prices and probable winners. A

considerable drop in the circulation of all these papers was the immediate result, accompanied, of course, by

a fallingoff in advertisement value, while a crop of special betting broadsheets sprang up to supply the

newly created want. Under their influence the betting habit became if anything rather more widely diffused

than before. The Duke had possibly overlooked the futility of koepenicking the leaders of the nation with

excellently intentioned angel understudies, while leaving the mass of the people in its original condition.

Further sensation and dislocation was caused in the Press world by the sudden and dramatic rapprochement

which took place between the AngelEditor of the Scrutator and the AngelEditor of the Anglian Review,

who not only ceased to criticize and disparage the tone and tendencies of each other's publication, but agreed

to exchange editorships for alternating periods. Here again public support was not on the side of the angels;

constant readers of the Scrutator complained bitterly of the strong meat which was thrust upon them at fitful

intervals in place of the almost vegetarian diet to which they had become confidently accustomed; even those

who were not mentally averse to strong meat as a separate course were pardonably annoyed at being supplied

with it in the pages of the Scrutator. To be suddenly confronted with a pungent herring salad when one had

attuned oneself to tea and toast, or to discover a richly truffled segment of pa^re` de foie dissembled in a

bowl of bread and milk, would be an experience that might upset the equanimity of the most placidly

disposed mortal. An equally vehement outcry arose from the regular subscribers of the Anglian Review, who

protested against being served from time to time with literary fare which no young person of sixteen could

possibly want to devour in secret. To take infinite precautions, they complained, against the juvenile perusal

of such eminently innocuous literature was like reading the Riot Act on an uninhabited island. Both reviews

suffered a serious fallingoff in circulation and influence. Peace hath its devastations as well as war.

The wives of noted public men formed another element of discomfiture which the young Duke had almost

entirely left out of his calculations. It is sufficiently embarrassing to keep abreast of the possible wobblings

and veeringsround of a human husband, who, from the strength or weakness of his personal character, may

leap over or slip through the barriers which divide the parties; for this reason a merciful politician usually

marries late in life, when he has definitely made up his mind on which side he wishes his wife to be socially

valuable. But these trials were as nothing compared to the bewilderment caused by the Angelhusbands who

seemed in some cases to have revolutionized their outlook on life in the interval between breakfast and

dinner, without premonition or preparation of any kind, and apparently without realizing the least need for

subsequent explanation. The temporary peace which brooded over the Parliamentary situation was by no

means reproduced in the home circles of the leading statesmen and politicians. It had been frequently and

extensively remarked of Mrs. Exe that she would try the patience of an angel; now the tables were reversed,

and she unwittingly had an opportunity for discovering that the capacity for exasperating behaviour was not

And then, with the introduction of the Navy Estimates, Parliamentary peace suddenly dissolved. It was the

old quarrel between Ministers and the Opposition as to the adequacy or the reverse of the Government's naval

programme. The AngelQuinston and the AngelHugoSizzle contrived to keep the debates free from

personalities and pinpricks, but an enormous sensation was created when the elegant lackadaisical Halfan

Halfour threatened to bring up fifty thousand stalwarts to wreck the House if the Estimates were not forthwith

revised on a TwoPower basis. It was a memorable scene when he rose in his place, in response to the

scandalized shouts of his opponents, and thundered forth, ``Gentlemen, I glory in the name of Apache.''

Belturbet, who had made several fruitless attempts to ring up his young friend since the fateful morning in St.

James's Park, ran him to earth one afternoon at his club, smooth and spruce and unruffled as ever.

``Tell me, what on earth have you turned Cocksley Coxon into?'' Belturbet asked anxiously, mentioning the

name of one of the pillars of unorthodoxy in the Anglican Church. ``I don't fancy he believes in angels, and if

he finds an angel preaching orthodox sermons from his pulpit while he's been turned into a foxterrier, he'll

``Look here, Euge'ne,'' he whispered hoarsely, having first looked well round to see that no one was within

hearing range, ``you've got to stop it. Consols are jumping up and down like bronchos, and that speech of

Halfour's in the House last night has simply startled everybody out of their wits. And then on the top if it,

``Nothing. That's just what's so disturbing. Every one thought it was simply inevitable that he should come

out with a great epochmaking speech at this juncture, and I've just seen on the tape that he has refused to

address any meetings at present, giving as a reason his opinion that something more than mere

``It's so unlike Thistlebery,'' continued Belturbet; ``at least,'' he said suspiciously, ``it's unlike the real

``The real Thistlebery is flying about somewhere as a vocally industrious lapwing,'' said the Duke calmly; ``I

At this moment there was a magnetic stampede of members towards the lobby, where the tapemachines

``Coup d'e'tat in the North. Thistlebery seizes Edinburgh Castle. Threatens civil war unless Government

In the babel which ensued Belturbet lost sight of his young friend. For the best part of the afternoon he

searched one likely haunt after another, spurred on by the sensational posters which the evening papers were

displaying broadcast over the West End. General BadenBaden mobilizes BoyScouts. Another coup d'e'tat

feared. Is Windsor Castle safe?'' This was one of the earlier posters, and was followed by one of even more

sinister purport: ``Will the Testmatch have to be postponed?'' It was this disquietening question which

brought home the real seriousness of the situation to the London public, and made people wonder whether

one might not pay too high a price for the advantages of party government. Belturbet, questing round in the

hope of finding the originator of the trouble, with a vague idea of being able to induce him to restore matters

to their normal human footing, came across an elderly club acquaintance who dabbled extensively in some of

the more sensitive market securities. He was pale with indignation, and his pallor deepened as a breathless

newsboy dashed past with a poster inscribed: ``Premier's constituency harried by mosstroopers. Halfour

sends encouraging telegram to rioters. Letchworth Garden City threatens reprisals. Foreigners taking refuge

At the bottom of St. James's Street a newspaper motorcart, which had just come rapidly along Pall Mall,

was surrounded by a knot of eagerly talking people, and for the first time that afternoon Belturbet heard

It displayed a placard with the welcome announcement: ``Crisis ended. Government gives way. Important

There seemed to be no immediate necessity for pursuing the quest of the errant Duke, and Belturbet turned to

make his way homeward through St. James's Park. His mind, attuned to the alarums and excursions of the

afternoon, became dimly aware that some excitement of a detached nature was going on around him. In spite

of the political ferment which reigned in the streets, quite a large crowd had gathered to watch the unfolding

of a tragedy that had taken place on the shore of the ornamental water. A large black swan, which had

recently shown signs of a savage and dangerous disposition, had suddenly attacked a young gentleman who

was walking by the water's edge, dragged him down under the surface, and drowned him before any one

could come to his assistance. At the moment when Belturbet arrived on the spot several parkkeepers were

engaged in lifting the corpse into a punt. Belturbet stooped to pick up a hat that lay near the scene of the

More than a month elapsed before Belturbet had sufficiently recovered from his attack of nervous prostration

to take an interest once more in what was going on in the world of politics. The Parliamentary Session was

still in full swing, and a General Election was looming in the near future. He called for a batch of morning

papers and skimmed rapidly through the speeches of the Chancellor, Quinston, and other Ministerial leaders,

as well as those of the principal Opposition champions, and then sank back in his chair with a sigh of relief.

Evidently the spell had ceased to act after the tragedy which had overtaken its invoker. There was no trace of

In the morningroom of his sisterinlaw's house Groby Lington fidgeted away the passing minutes with the

demure restlessness of advanced middle age. About a quarter of an hour would have to elapse before it would

be time to say his goodbyes and make his way across the village green to the station, with a selected escort

of nephews and nieces. He was a goodnatured, kindly dispositioned man, and in theory he was delighted to

pay periodical visits to the wife and children of his dead brother William; in practice, he infinitely preferred

the comfort and seclusion of his own house and garden, and the companionship of his books and his parrot to

these rather meaningless and tiresome incursions into a family circle with which he had little in common. It

was not so much the spur of his own conscience that drove him to make the occasional short journey by rail

to visit his relatives, as an obedient concession to the more insistent but vicarious conscience of his brother,

Colonel John, who was apt to accuse him of neglecting poor old William's family. Groby usually forgot or

ignored the existence of his neighbour kinsfolk until such time as he was threatened with a visit from the

Colonel, when he would put matters straight by a burned pilgrimage across the few miles of intervening

country to renew his acquaintance with the young people and assume a kindly if rather forced interest in the

wellbeing of his sisterinlaw. On this occasion he had cut matters so fine between the timing of his

exculpatory visit and the coming of Colonel John, that he would scarcely be home before the latter was due to

arrive. Anyhow, Groby had got it over, and six or seven months might decently elapse before he need again

sacrifice his comforts and inclinations on the altar of family sociability. He was inclined to be distinctly

cheerful as he hopped about the room, picking up first one object, then another, and subjecting each to a brief

Presently his cheerful listlessness changed sharply to an attitude of vexed attention. In a scrapbook of

drawings and caricatures belonging to one of his nephews he had come across an unkindly clever sketch of

himself and his parrot, solemnly confronting each other in postures of ridiculous gravity and repose, and

bearing a likeness to one another that the artist had done his utmost to accentuate. After the first flush of

annoyance had passed away, Groby laughed goodnaturedly and admitted to himself the cleverness of the

drawing. Then the feeling of resentment repossessed him, resentment not against the caricaturist who had

embodied the idea in pen and ink, but against the possible truth that the idea represented. Was it really the

case that people grew in time to resemble the animals they kept as pets, and had he unconsciously become

more and more like the comically solemn bird that was his constant companion? Groby was unusually silent

as he walked to the train with his escort of chattering nephews and nieces, and during the short railway

journey his mind was more and more possessed with an introspective conviction that he had gradually settled

down into a sort of parrotlike existence. What, after all, did his daily routine amount to but a sedate

meandering and pecking and perching, in his garden, among his fruit trees, in his wicker chair on the lawn, or

by the fireside in his library? And what was the sum total of his conversation with chanceencountered

neighbours? ``Quite a spring day, isn't it?'' ``It looks as though we should have some rain.`` ``Glad to see you

about again; you must take care of yourself.'' ``How the young folk shoot up, don't they?'' Strings of stupid,

inevitable perfunctory remarks came to his mind, remarks that were certainly not the mental exchange of

human intelligences, but mere empty parrottalk. One might really just as well salute one's acquaintances

with ``Pretty Polly. Puss, puss, miaow!'' Groby began to fume against the picture of himself as a foolish

feathered fowl which his nephews sketch had first suggested, and which his own accusing imagination was

``I'll give the beastly bird away,'' he said resentfully; though he knew at the same time that he would do no

such thing. It would look so absurd after all the years that he had kept the parrot and made much of it

``Has my brother arrived?'' he asked of the stableboy, who had come with the ponycarriage to meet him.

``Yessir, came down by the twofifteen. Your parrot's dead.'' The boy made the latter announcement with the

``The ipe what the Colonel brought down with him,'' came the rather alarming answer.

``Do you mean to say my brother is ill?'' asked Groby. ``Is it something infectious?''

``Th' Coloners so well as ever he was,'' said the boy; and as no further explanation was forthcoming Groby

had to possess himself in mystified patience till he reached home. His brother was waiting for him at the hall

``Have you heard about the parrot?'' he asked at once. ``'Pon my soul I'm awfully sorry. The moment he saw

the monkey I'd brought down as a surprise for you he squawked out, `Rats to you, sir!' and the blessed

monkey made one spring at him, got him by the neck and whirled him round like a rattle. He was as dead as

mutton by the time I'd got him out of the little beggar's paws. Always been such a friendly little beast, the

monkey has, should never have thought he`d got it in him to see red like that. Can't tell you how sorry I feel

``Not at all,' said Groby sincerely. A few hours earlier the tragic end which had befallen his parrot would

have presented itself to him as a calamity; now it arrived almost as a polite attention on the part of the Fates.

``The bird was getting old, you know,'' he went on, in explanation of his obvious lack of decent regret at the

loss of his pet. ``I was really beginning to wonder if it was an unmixed kindness to let him go on living till he

succumbed to old age. What a charming little monkey!'' he added, when he was introduced to the culprit.

The newcomer was a small, longtailed monkey from the Western Hemisphere, with a gentle, halfshy,

halftrusting manner that instantly captured Groby's confidence; a student of simian character might have

seen in the fitful red light in its eyes some indication of the underlying temper which the parrot had so rashly

put to the test with such dramatic consequences for itself. The servants, who had come to regard the defunct

bird as a regular member of the household, and one who gave really very little trouble, were scandalized to

find his bloodthirsty aggressor installed in his place as an honoured domestic pet.

``A nasty heathen ipe what don't never say nothing sensible and cheerful, same as pore Polly did,'' was the

;One Sunday morning, some twelve or fourteen months after the visit of Colonel John and the parrottragedy,

Miss Wepley sat decorously in her pew in the parish church, immediately in front of that occupied by Groby

Lington. She was, comparatively speaking, a newcomer in the neighbourhood, and was not personally

acquainted with her fellowworshipper in the seat behind, but for the past two years the Sunday morning

service had brought them regularly within each other's sphere of consciousness. Without having paid

particular attention to the subject, she could probably have given a correct rendering of the way in which he

pronounced certain words occurring in the responses, while he was well aware of the trivial fact that, in

addition to her prayer book and handkerchief, a small paper packet of throat lozenges always reposed on the

seat beside her. Miss Wepley rarely had recourse to her lozenges, but in case she should be taken with a fit of

coughing she wished to have the emergency duly provided for. On this particular Sunday the lozenges

occasioned an unusual diversion in the even tenor of her devotions, far more disturbing to her personally than

a prolonged attack of coughing would have been. As she rose to take part in the singing of the first hymn, she

fancied that she saw the hand of her neighbour, who was alone in the pew behind her, make a furtive

downward grab at the packet lying on the seat; on turning sharply round she found that the packet had

certainly disappeared, but Mr. Lington was to all outward seeming serenely intent on his hymnbook. No

amount of interrogatory glaring on the part of the despoiled lady could bring the least shade of conscious

``Worse was to follow,'' as she remarked afterwards to a scandalized audience of friends and acquaintances.

''I had scarcely knelt in prayer when a lozenge, one of my lozenges, came whizzing into the pew, just under

my nose. I turned round and stared, but Mr. Lington had his eyes closed and his lips moving as though

engaged in prayer. The moment I resumed my devotions another lozenge came rattling in, and then another. I

took no notice for a while, and then turned round suddenly just as the dreadful man was about to flip another

one at me. He hastily pretended to be turning over the leaves of his book but I was not to be taken in that

time. He saw that he had been discovered and no more lozenges came. Of course I have changed my pew.''

``No gentleman would have acted in such a disgraceful manner,'' said one of her listeners; ``and yet Mr.

Lington used to be so respected by everybody. He seems to have behaved like a little illbred schoolboy.''

Her unfavourable verdict was echoed in other quarters about the same time. Groby Lington had never been a

hero in the eyes of his personal retainers, but he had shared the approval accorded to his defunct parrot as a

cheerful welldispositioned body, who gave no particular trouble. Of late months, however, this character

would hardly have been endorsed by the members of his domestic establishment. The stolid stableboy, who

had first announced to him the tragic end of his feathered pet, was one of the first to give voice to the

murmurs of disapproval which became rampant and general in the servants' quarters, and he had fairly

substantial grounds for his disaffection. In a burst of hot summer weather he had obtained permission to bathe

in a modestsized pond in the orchard, and thither one afternoon Groby had bent his steps, attracted by loud

imprecations of anger mingled with the shriller chattering of monkeylanguage. He beheld his plump

diminutive servitor, clad only in a waistcoat and a pair of socks, storming ineffectually at the monkey which

was seated on a low branch of an apple tree, abstractedly fingering the remainder of the boy's outfit, which he

``The ipe's been an' took my clothes,'' whined the boy, with the passion of his kind for explaining the obvious.

His incomplete toilet effect rather embarrassed him, but he hailed the arrival of Groby with relief, as

promising moral and material support in his efforts to get back his raided garments. The monkey had ceased

its defiant jabbering, and doubtless with a little coaxing from its master it would hand back the plunder.

``If I lift you up,'' suggested Groby, ``you will just be able to reach the clothes.''

The boy agreed, and Groby clutched him firmly by the waistcoat, which was about all there was to catch hold

of, and lifted him clear of the ground. Then, with a deft swing he sent him crashing into a clump of tag

nettles, which closed receptively round him. The victim had not been brought up in a school which teaches

one to repress one's emotionsif a fox had attempted to gnaw at his vitals he would have flown to

complain to the nearest hunt committee rather than have affected an attitude of stoical indifference. On this

occasion the volume of sound which he produced under the stimulus of pain and rage and astonishment was

generous and sustained, but above his bellowings he could distinctly hear the triumphant chattering of his

When the boy had finished an improvised St. Vitus caracole, which would have brought him fame on the

boards of the Coliseum, and which indeed met with ready appreciation and applause from the retreating

figure of Groby Lington, he found that the monkey had also discreetly retired, while his clothes were

``They'm two ipes, that's what they be,'' he muttered angrily, and if his judgment was severe, at least he spoke

It was a week or two later that the parlourmaid gave notice, having been terrified almost to tears by an

outbreak of sudden temper on the part of the master anent some under done cutlets. ``'E gnashed 'is teeth at

``I'd like to see 'im talk like that to me, I would,'' said the cook defiantly, but her cooking from that moment

It was seldom that Groby Lington so far detached himself from his accustomed habits as to go and form one

of a houseparty, and he was not a little piqued that Mrs. Glenduff should have stowed him away in the

musty old Georgian wing of the house, in the next room, moreover, to Leonard Spabbink, the eminent pianist.

``He plays Liszt like an angel,'' had been the hostess's enthusiastic testimonial.

``He may play him like a trout for all I care,'' had been Groby's mental comment, ``but I wouldn't mind

betting that be snores. He's just the sort and shape that would. And if I hear him snoring through those

Groby stood it for about two and a quarter minutes, and then made his way through the corridor into

Spabbink's room. Under Groby's vigorous measures the musicians flabby, redundant figure sat up in

bewildered semiconsciousness like an icecream that has been taught to beg. Groby prodded him into

complete wakefulness, and then the pettish selfsatisfied pianist fairly lost his temper and slapped his

domineering visitant on the hand. In another moment Spabbink was being nearly stifled and very effectually

gagged by a pillowcase tightly bound round his head, while his plump pyjama'd limbs were hauled out of

bed and smacked, pinched, kicked, and bumped in a catchascatchcan progress across the floor, towards

the flat shallow bath in whose utterly inadequate depths Groby perseveringly strove to drown him. For a few

moments the room was almost in darkness: Groby's candle had overturned in an early stage of the scuffle,

and its flicker scarcely reached to the spot where splashings, smacks, muffled cries, and splutterings, and a

chatter of apelike rage told of the struggle that was being waged round the shores of the bath. A few instants

later the onesided combat was brightly lit up by the flare of blazing curtains and rapidly kindling panelling.

When the hastily aroused members of the houseparty stampeded out on to the lawn, the Georgian wing was

well alight and belching forth masses of smoke, but some moments elapsed before Groby appeared with the

halfdrowned pianist in his arms, having just bethought him of the superior drowning facilities offered by the

pond at the bottom of the lawn. The cool night air sobered his rage, and when he found that he was innocently

acclaimed as the heroic rescuer of poor Leonard Spabbink, and loudly commended for his presence of mind

in tying a wet cloth round his head to protect him from smoke suffocation, he accepted the situation, and

subsequently gave a graphic account of his finding the musician asleep with an overturned candle by his side

and the conflagration well started. Spabbink gave his version some days later, when he had partially

recovered from the shock of his midnight castigation and immersion, but the gentle pitying smiles and

evasive comments with which his story was greeted warned him that the public ear was not at his disposal.

He refused, however, to attend the ceremonial presentation of the Royal Humane Society's lifesaving medal.

It was about this time that Groby's pet monkey fell a victim to the disease which attacks so many of its kind

when brought under the influence of a northern climate. Its master appeared to be profoundly affected by its

loss, and never quite recovered the level of spirits that he had recently attained. In company with the tortoise,

which Colonel John presented to him on his last visit, he potters about his lawn and kitchen garden, with

none of his erstwhile sprightliness; and his nephews and nieces are fairly well justified in alluding to him as