"You'll come upstairs and read a few, anyway," said I; and took him

upstairs and showed him the _Times_. He frowned as he read Farrell's

letter. I expected him to break out into strong language at least.

But he finished his reading and tossed the paper on to the table with

no more than a short laugh--a rather grim short laugh.

"Silly little bounder," was his comment.

"You didn't treat him quite so apathetically, the night before last,"

said I. "It might be better for you if you had. Look, here's the

_Morning Post, Standard, Daily News, Mail, Chronicle, Express_. . . .

He has plastered it into them all."

"I don't read newspapers," was his answer.

"Other people do," was mine; for I was nettled a bit. "Here are some

of the editors asking questions already, and I'll bet the evening

papers will be like dogs about a bone. This man may be a damned

fool, but he's dangerous: that's to say he has started mischief."

"Oh, surely--not dangerous?" Foe queried, with an odd lift of his

eyebrows.

"If I were you, at all events, I'd go straight and consult your man--

what's his name? Travers?--at once. My taxi is waiting, and I'll

run across in time to interview him before you start your morning's

work. Did he show you his answer to these precious Memorialists

before he posted it?"

For the moment Foe ignored my question. "Dangerous?" he repeated in

a musing, questioning way. "Do you really think . . . I beg your

pardon, Roddy . . . Eh? You were asking about Travers. Yes, he

showed me his answer. Very good answer, I thought. It just told

them to mind their own business."

"Did he say that, in so many words?" I asked.

"Let me think. . . . So far as I remember he put it rather neatly.

. . . Yes, he wrote that he was not prepared to worry his staff with

vague charges, or to invite an inquiry on the strength of

representations which--so far as he could attach a meaning to them--

meant what was false. But he added that if the Memorialists would

kindly put these charges into writing, defining the practices

complained of, and naming the persons accused, they should be dealt

with in the proper way which (he understood) the law provided."

"Capital," said I. "Your Principal is no fool. Go off straight and

consult him. Take these papers--the whole bundle--"

Foe took them up and pushed them into the pockets of his great-coat.

"_You_ think he's dangerous?" he asked again, in an absent-minded

way.

"Eh? . . . Oh, you're talking of Farrell?" said I. "Farrell's a

fool, and fools are always dangerous."

Thereupon Jack Foe did and said that which I had afterwards some

cause to remember. He passed his hand over his forehead, much as a

man might brush away a cobweb flung across his evening walk between

hedges. "That man makes me tired," he said; "extraordinarily tired.

For two nights I've been trying not to dream about him. It was very

good of you to come, Roddy. You shall run me over in your taxi and

I'll speak to Travers. If the man is a fool--"

"A dangerous fool," I corrected.

"Coward, too, I should judge. Yes, certainly, I'll speak to

Travers."

I put down Foe at the gates of his College and speeded home.

Jimmy had breakfasted and gone forth to take the air. I sat

down to open my letters and answer them. In the middle of this my

agent arrived. We lunched together and spent the afternoon

canvassing. This lasted until dinner, for which I returned to my

Club. Thence a taxi took me East again to Bethnal Green for a

meeting. The importance of these details is that they kept me from

having word with Jimmy, or seeing fur or feather of him, for more

than twenty-four hours.

Nor did I find him in my chambers when I got home, soon after eleven.

He was a youth of many engagements. So I mixed myself a drink and

whiled away three-quarters of an hour with a solitary pipe and the

bundle of evening papers set out for me by Jephson, who lived out

with his wife and family and retired to domestic joys at 9.30.

The evening papers had let down the Silversmiths' College pretty

easily on the whole. But one of them--an opposition rag which

specialised in the politics, especially gutter politics, of South

London and was owned by a ring of contractors--had come out with a

virulent attack, headed "Vivisection in Our Midst." The article set

me hoping that Travers was a strong man and would use the law of

libel: it deserved the horsewhip. It left a taste in the mouth that

required a second whisky-and-apollinaris before I sought my bed,

sleepily promising myself that I would call on Farrell in the

morning, however inconvenient it might be, and help to put an end to

this nonsense. . . . I would, if the worst came to the worst, even

drag the fool to Jack's laboratory and convince him of his folly.

And this promise, as will be seen, I carried out to the very last

letter.

A rapping on my bedroom door fetched me out of my beauty sleep.

I started up in bed and switched on the electric light.

"That you, Jimmy?" I called. "Come in, you ass, and say what you

want. If it's the corkscrew--"

"If you please, Sir Roderick--sorry to disturb you--" said a voice

outside which I recognised as the night-porter's.

"Smithers?" I called. "What's wrong? . . . Open the door, man. . . .

Is the place on fire?"

The door opened and showed me Smithers with a tall policeman looming

behind him.

"Hallo!" said I, sitting up straighter and rubbing my eyes.

"Constable, sir," explained Smithers, "with a message for you.

Says he must see you personally."

The constable spoke while I stared at him, my eyes blinking under the

bed-light. "It's a dream," I was telling myself. "Silly kind of

dream--"

"Gentleman in the Ensor Street Police Court, sir. Requires bail

till to-morrow--till ten-thirty this morning, I should have said.

Gave your name for surety." The constable announced this in a firm

bass voice, respectful but business-like. "Said he was a friend of

yours."

"What's his name?" I demanded.

"Gave the name of James Collingwood, sir--and this same address."

I gasped. "Jimmy?--Oh, I beg your pardon, Constable!--What has Mr.

Collingwood been doing?"

"He's _charged_, sir," the constable answered carefully, "with

resisting the police in the execution of their duty."

"What duty?"

"There was another gent took up, sir: and I may say, between

ourselves, as your friend, sir, put up a bit of a fight for him.

Very nimble with his fists he was, sir, or so I heard it mentioned.

I wasn't myself mixed up in the affair. But from the faces on them

as brought him in I should say, strikly between ourselves, he's lucky

the word isn't assault--even aggeravated. But the Inspector took the

report . . . and the Inspector, if I may say so, knows a gentleman

when he sees one."

"Was he--" I began, and corrected myself. "Was Mr. Collingwood

drunk?--strictly between ourselves, as you put it."

"No, sir." The honest man gave his verdict slowly. "I shan't be

called for evidence: but I seen him and talked with him. Sober and

bright, sir; and, when I left, in the best of sperrits. But I

wouldn't say as how he hadn't been more than happy earlier in the

evening."

"Thank you, Constable," said I. "You'll find a decanter, a syphon,

and a glass set out for the prodigal's return, all on the table in

the next room. Possibly you'll discover what to do with them while I

dress. Smithers, turn on the light out there, and get me a taxi if

you can. For I suppose," said I to the constable, "this means that

I've to turn out and go with you?"

"I am afraid so, sir, and thanking you kindly. But as for the taxi,

I came in one and took the liberty to keep it waiting--at this hour."

"Very thoughtful of you," said I, with a look at my watch. The time

was 12.50.

"Not at all, sir. Mr. Collingwood turned out the loose change in his

pocket and told me not to spare expense. Here it is, sir--one pound,

seventeen--and I'd be glad if you took it and paid the whole fare at

the end of the run."

"Good," said I, amused. "Jimmy is obviously sober. I never knew him

drunk--really drunk--for that matter." I had my legs out of bed by

this time, and the constable was bashfully withdrawing, Smithers

having turned on the lights in the outer room. "Stop a moment," I

commanded. "You may not believe it, but I'm a child at this game.

How much money shall I have to take? . . . I don't know that I have

more than a tenner loose about me--unless I can raise something off

Smithers."

The constable relaxed his face into a smile, or something approaching

one. "There is no money needed--not at this hour of the night.

Your recognisances, Sir Roderick--for a fiver or so, if you ask me.

But--" and here he hesitated.

"Well?"

"There's the other gentleman, sir. Mr. Collingwood _did_ mention--"

"Oh, did he?" I cut in. "It was silly, maybe, to have forgotten him

all this time--I'm a sound sleeper; and even when awake my mind moves

slowly. But who the Hades is this other gentleman?"

"When arrested, sir, he gave his name as Martin Frobisher," said the

constable with just a tremor of the eyelids, "and his address as

North-West Passage; he wouldn't say more definitely. At the station

he asked leave to correct this, and said that his real name was

Martin Luther, a foreigner, but naturalised for years, and we should

find his papers at the Reform Club, S.W."

"I don't seem to have met either of these Martins--or not in life,"

I said thoughtfully.

"Well, sir, if you ask _me_," he agreed, "I should be surprised if

you had; for between ourselves, as it were, I don't believe he's

either of his alleged Martins. And the Station don't think much of

his names and addresses."

"Does _he_ want to be bailed out, too?" I asked.

"He didn't ask it. He weren't in no condition, sir--as you might put

it--when I left. But Mr. Collingwood, he says to me (I took a note,

sir, of the very words he used)"--the man pulled out a note-book from

his breast-pocket, and held it forward under the light--"'You go to

Sir Roderick,' he says, 'and tell him from me that the prodigal is

returned bearing his calf with him.'" The constable read it out

carefully, word by word. "I don't know what it means, sir; but that

was his message, and he said it twice over."

"There seems to be more in this than meets the eye," said I,

pondering the riddle.

"You wouldn't say so, sir, if you'd seen Hagan's," said he, retiring

with the last word and, on top of it, a genially open grin.

I was dressed in ten minutes or so, and we sped to Ensor Street.

There I found my young reprobate sober and cheerful and unabashed.

"Sorry to give you this trouble, old man," was his greeting.

"Sort of thing that happens when a fellow gets mixed up in politics."

"You shall tell me all about it," said I, "when we've gone through

the little formalities of release. . . . What have I to sign?"

I asked the sergeant who played escort.

"Oh, but wait a moment," put in Jimmy. "There's another bird. The

animals came in two by two--eh, Sergeant Noah? I say, Otty, you'll

be in a fearful way when you see him. But I couldn't help it--upon

my soul I couldn't: and you'll have to be kind to him."

"Who is it?" I demanded.

"It's--Well, he gave the name of Martin Luther. But you judge for

yourself. Sergeant Bostock--or are you Wombwell?--take Sir Haroun

Alraschid to the next cage and show him the Great Reformer."

To the next cell I was led in a state of expectancy that indeed

justified his allusion to the _Arabian Nights_. And the door opened

and the light shone--upon Mr. Peter Farrell!

It was a swollen eye that Mr. Farrell upturned to us from his low

bed, and a swollen and bloodied lip that babbled contrition along

with appeals to be "got out of this" and lamentations for the day

he was born; and as on that day so on this a mother had found it

hard to recognise him. He wore a goodly but disorganised raiment;

a fur-lined great-coat, evening dress beneath it; but the tie was

missing, the shirt-collar had burst from its stud, the shirt-front

showed blood-stains, dirty finger-marks, smears of mud. Mud caked

his coat, its fur: apparently he had been rolling in mud. But the

worst was that he wept.

He wept copiously. Was it the late Mr. Gladstone who invented the

phrase "Reformation in a Flood"? Anyhow, it kept crossing and

re-crossing my mind absurdly as I surveyed this wreck that had called

itself Martin Luther. All the wine in him had turned to tears of

repentance, and he was pretty nauseous. I told him to stand up.

"This--er--gentleman," said I to the police-sergeant, "is called

Farrell--Mr. Peter Farrell. He lives," I said, as the address at the

foot of the _Times_ letter came to my memory, "at The Acacias,

Wimbledon."

The sergeant nodded slowly. "That's right, sir. I knew him well

enough. Attended a meeting of his only last Saturday--on duty,

that's to say."

We smiled. "He's not precisely a friend of mine," said I. "But we

have met in public life, and I'll be answerable for him. We must get

him out of this."

"There's no difficulty, sir, since we have the address. There was no

card or letter in his pocket, and he said he came from Wittenberg

through the Gates of Hell. I looked him up in the Directory and the

address is as you state. . . . But to tell you the truth, sir, I

didn't ring up his telephone number, thinking as a nap might bring

him round a bit. . . . We keep a taxi or two on call for these little

jobs, and I'll get a driver that can be trusted. I'll call up Sam

Hicks. There was a latch-key in the gentleman's pocket, and Sam

Hicks is capable of steering a case like this to bed and leaving the

summons pinned on his dressing-gown for a reminder. . . . But perhaps

you'll call around for him to-morrow morning, sir, and bring him?"

"I'll be damned if I do," said I. "He must take his risks and I'll

risk the bail. . . . Look here!"--I took Mr. Farrell by the collar

and my fingers touched mud. "Pah!" said I. "Can't we clean him up a

bit before consigning him? . . . Look here, Farrell! I'm sending you

home. Do you understand? And you're to return here on peril of your

life at ten o'clock. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Sir Roderick," sobbed Farrell. "Angels must have sent

you, Sir Roderick. . . . I have unfortunately mislaid my glasses and

something seems to be obscuring the sight of my left eye. But I

recognised your kindly voice, Sir Roderick. The events of the past

few hours are something of a blank to me at present: but may I take

the liberty of wringing my deliverer by the hand?"

"Certainly not," said I. "Sit up and attend. Have you a wife?

Sit up, I say. Will Mrs. Farrell by any chance be sitting up?"

"I thank God," answered Mr. Farrell fervently, "I am a widower.

It is the one bright spot. Could my poor Maria look down from where

she is, and see me at this moment--"

"It _is_ a slice of luck," I agreed. "Well, you're in the devil of a

mess, and you've goosed yourself besides losing a promising seat for

the party. What on earth--but we'll talk of that to-morrow.

You must turn up, please, and see it out. I don't know what defence,

if any, you can put up: but by to-morrow you'll have a damnatory eye

that will spoil the most ingenious. My advice is, don't make any.

Cut losses, and face the music. This is a queer country; but the

Press, which has been ragging you for weeks, will deal tenderly with

you as a drunk and incapable."

"But the scandal, Sir Roderick!" he moaned.

"There won't be any," said I. "You've lost the seat: that's all.

. . . Now stay quiet while I sign a paper or two."

Jimmy (redeemed) and I together packed Mr. Farrell into his taxi.

Mr. Samuel Hicks, driver and expert, threw an eye over him as we

helped him in and wrapped him in rugs. "There's going to be no

trouble with this fare," said Mr. Hicks, as he pocketed his

payment-in-advance. "Nigh upon two o'clock in the morning and no

more trouble than a lamb in cold storage."

NIGHT THE FIFTH.

ADVENTURE OF THE "CATALAFINA": MR. JAMES COLLINGWOOD'S NARRATIVE.

"Well now," I asked, as my taxi bore us homeward, "what have you to

say about all this?"

"I say," answered Jimmy with sententiousness, after a pause, "that

you should never take three glasses of champagne on an empty

stomach."

"I don't," said I.

"Nor do I," said Jimmy. "I took five, on Farrell's three . . .

eight glasses to the bottle. It was a Christian act, because I saw

that was he exceeding. But he insisted on ordering two bottles: so

it was all thrown away."

"What was thrown away?"

"The Christian act. . . . I say, Otty," he reproached me, "wake up!

You're not attending."

"On the contrary," I assured him, "I am waiting with some patience

for the explanation you owe me. After dragging me out of bed at one

o'clock in the morning, it's natural, perhaps, you should assume me

to be half-asleep--"

Jimmy broke in with a chuckle. "Poor old Otty! You've been most

awfully decent over this."

"Cut that short," I admonished him. "I am waiting for the story: and

you provide the requisite lightness of touch; but the trouble is, you

don't seem able to provide anything else."

"Don't be stern, Otty," he entreated. "It is past pardon. I know,

and to-morrow--later in the morning, I should say--you'll find that

the defendant feels his position acutely. Honour bright, I'll do you

credit in the dock. . . . Wish I was as sure of Farrell. But, as for

the story, as I am a sober man, I don't know where to begin. There's

a wicked uncle mixed up in it, and a wicked nephew and a taxi, and a

lady with a reticule, and a picture palace, and a water-pipe, and

heaps upon heaps of policemen--they're the worst mixed up of the

lot--"

"Begin at the beginning," I commanded. "That is, unless you'd rather

defer the whole story for the magistrate's ear."

"The whole story?" He chuckled. "I'd like to see the Beak's face.

. . . No, I couldn't possibly. My good Otty, how many people d'you

reckon it would compromise?"

"You've compromised Farrell pretty thoroughly, anyhow," said I

grimly: "and you've compromised the cause in which I happen to be

interested. Has it occurred to you, my considerate young friend,

that Farrell has receded to 1000 to 1 in the betting?--that, in

short, you've lost us the seat?"

"_I_ compromise Farrell?"--Jimmy sat up and exclaimed it indignantly.

"_I_ lose you his silly seat? . . . Rats! The little bounder

compromised himself! He's been doing it freely--doing it since ten

o'clock--two crowded hours of glorious life . . . 'stonishing, Otty,

what a variegated ass a man can make of himself nowadays in two short

hours, with the help of a taxi and if he wastes no time. When I

think of our simple grandfathers playing at Bloods, wrenching off

door-knockers. . . . Oh, yes--but you're waiting for the story.

Well, it happened like this,--

"Farrell called on you this morning, soon after breakfast-time, and

found me breakfasting. He was in something of a perspiration.

It appeared that he'd fired off a letter to the _Times_ directed

against our dear Professor; and, having fired it, had learnt from

somebody that the Professor was a close friend of ours. He had come

around to make the peace with you, if he could--he's a funny little

snob. But you had flown."

"I had gone off," said I, "to catch Jack Foe and warn him that the

letter was dangerous."

"Think so? Well, you'd left the _Times_ lying on the floor, and

he picked it up and read his composition to me while I dallied with

the bacon. It seemed to me pretty fair tosh, and I told him so.

I promised that if his second thoughts about it coincided with my

first ones, I would pass them on together to you when I saw you next,

and added that I had trouble to adapt my hours to political

candidates, they were such early risers. That, you might say, verged

on a hint: but he didn't take it. He hung about, standing on one leg

and then on the other, protesting that he would put things right.

I hate people who stand on one leg when you're breakfasting, don't

you? . . . So I gave him a cigar, and he smoked it whilst I went on

eating. He said it was a first-class cigar and asked me where I

dealt. I said truthfully that it was one of yours, and falsely that

you bought them in Leadenhall Market off a man called Huggins.

I gave him the address, which he took down with a gold pencil in his

pocket-book. . . . I said they were probably smuggled, and (as I

expected) he winked at me and said he rather gathered so from the

address. He also said that he knew a good thing wherever he saw it,

that you were his _bo ideal_ of a British baronet, and that we had

very cosy quarters. This led him on to discourse of his wife, and

how lonely he felt since losing her--she had been a martyr to

sciatica. But there was much to be said for a bachelor existence,

after all. It was so free. His wife had never, in the early days,

whole-heartedly taken to his men friends: for which he couldn't

altogether blame her--they weren't many of 'em drawing-room company.

A good few of them, too, had gone down in the world while he had been

going up. He instanced some of these, but I didn't recollect having

met any of 'em. There were others he'd lost sight of. He named

these too--good old Bill This and Charley That and a Frank Somebody

who sang a wonderful tenor in his day and would bring tears to your

eyes the way he gave you _Annie Laurie_ when half drunk: but again I

couldn't recall that any of them had been passed down to me.

'You see, Mr. Collingwood,' he said, 'when one keeps a little house

down at Wimbledon, these things have a way of dropping out as time

goes on.' 'Just like the teeth,' said I. He thought over this for a

while, and then laughed--oh, he laughed quite a lot--and declared I

was a humorist. He hadn't heard anything so quick, not for a long

while. 'Mr. Collingwood,' he said, 'I'm a lonely man with it all.

I don't mind owning to you that I've taken up these here politics

partly for distraction. It used to be different when me and Maria

could stick it out over a game of bezique. She used to make me dress

for dinner, always. We had a billiard-room, too: but that didn't

work so well. I could never bring her up to my standard of play, not

within forty in a hundred, by reason that she'd use the rest for

almost every stroke. She had a sense of humour, had Maria: you'd

have got along with her, Mr. Collingwood, and she'd have got along

with you. You'd have struck sparks. One evening I asked her,

'Maria, why are you so fond of the jigger?' 'Because of my figger,'

says she, pat as you please. Now, wasn't that humorous, eh? She

_meant_, of course, that being of the buxom sort in later life--and

it carried her off in the end--' Why, hallo!" Jimmy exclaimed.

"Are we home already?"

"We have arrived at the Temple, E.C.," said I gently, "but scarcely

yet at the beginning of the story."

He resumed it in our chambers, while I operated on the hearth with a

firelighter.

"Well," said Jimmy, smoking, "to cut a long story short"--and I

grunted my thanks--"he told me he was a lonely man, but that he knew

a thing or two yet. Had I by any chance made acquaintance with the

'Catalafina,' in Soho? 'Oh, come!' said I bashfully, 'who is she?'

'It's a restarong,' said he: 'Italian: where the cook does things you

can't guess what they're made of. Just as well, perhaps.' But the

results, he undertook to say, were excellent."

"Do I see one?" I asked.

"No, you don't," answered Jimmy, sipping his whisky-and-soda.

"That's just _it_, if you'll let me proceed. . . . He said that they

kept some marvellous Lagrima Christi--if I liked Lagrima Christi.

For his part, it always soured on his stomach. But we could send out

for a bottle of fizz--I'm using his expression, Otty--"

"I trust so," said I.

"He called it that. He said he would take it as an honour if I'd

join him in a little supper this very evening at the 'Catalafina.'

He had a meeting at 7.30, at which he would do his best to soften

down this letter of his in the _Times_; he would get it over by 9.30.

Could we meet (say) on the steps of the 'Empire' at ten o'clock?

He would hurry thither straight from the Baths, report progress--for

me to set your mind at rest--and afterwards take me off to this

damned eating-house. I should never find it by myself, he assured

me. He was right there; but I'm not anxious to try. My hope is that

it, or the management, won't find _me_. . . . Well, weakly-and

partly for your sake, Otty--I consented. He said, by the way, he

would be greatly honoured if I'd persuade you to come along too.

'It's Bohemian,' he said; 'if Sir Roderick will overlook it.'

'You told me it was Italian,' said I: 'but never mind. Sir Roderick,

as it happens, is a bit of a Bohemian himself and is dining to-night

with a club of them--the Lost Dogs, if you've ever heard of that

Society.' I saved you, anyway. You may put it that I flung myself

into the breach. They found you, but it was literally over my

prostrate body . . . and here we are."

"Is that the story?" said I.

Jimmy leaned back on his shoulder-blades in the armchair. "It is the

preliminary canter," he announced. "Now we're off, and you watch me

getting into my stride,--

"Farrell turned up, on time. He was somewhat agitated, and I

suspect--yes, in the light of later events I strongly suspect--he had

picked up a drink somewhere on the way. I got into his taxi, and we

swung up Rupert Street, and out of Rupert Street into what the

novelists, when they haven't a handy map or the energy to use it,

describe as a labyrinth leading to questionable purlieus. I am

content to leave it at purlieus. The driver, as it seemed to me, had

as foggy a notion as I of what, without infringing Messrs. Swan and

Edgar's _lingerie_ copyright, we'll call the 'Catalafina's'

whereabouts. Farrell spent two-thirds of the passage with his head

out of window. I don't mean to convey that he was seasick: and he

certainly wasn't drunk, or approaching it. He kept his head out to

shout directions. He was pardonably excited--maybe a bit nervous in

a channel that seemed to be buoyed all the way with pawnbrokers'

signs. But he brought us through. We alighted at the entrance of

the 'Catalafina'; Farrell paid the driver, and I advised him to find

his way back before daylight overtook him.

"I will not attempt to describe the interior of the 'Catalafina.'

Farrell saved me that trouble on the threshold. 'Twenty years or

so,' he said, pausing and inhaling garlic, 'often makes a difference

in these places. One mustn't expect this to be quite what it used to

be." . . . Well, I hadn't, of course, and I dare say it wasn't.

It had sand on the floor, and spittoons. It was crowded, between the

spittoons, with little cast-iron tables, covered with dirty

table-cloths spread upon American cloth and garnished with artificial

flowers and napkins of Japanese paper. Farrell called them

'serviettes.' He also said he felt 'peckish.' I--well, I had taken

the precaution of dining at Boodle's, and responded that I was rather

for the bucket than the manger. He considered this for some time and

then laughed so loudly that all the anarchists in the room looked up

as if one of their bombs had gone off by mistake. . . . Oh, I omitted

to mention that all the space left unoccupied by cigarette-smoke and

the smell of garlic was crowded with anarchists, all dressed for the

part. They wore black ties with loose ends, fed with their hats on,

and read Italian newspapers--like a musical comedy. The waiters

looked like stage-anarchists, too; but you could easily tell them

from the others because they went about in their shirt-sleeves.

"Farrell caught the eye of one of these bandits, who came along with

a great neuter cat rubbing against his legs. Farrell began with two

jocose remarks which didn't quite hit the mark he intended them for.

'Hallo, Jovanny!' he said pretty loudly, 'I don't seem to remember

your face, and yet it's familiar somehow.'--Whereat Giovanni, or

whatever his name was, flung a look over his shoulder that was equal

to an alarm, and all the anarchists looked up uneasily too--for

Farrell's voice carries, as you may have observed. He followed this

up by smiling at me over the _carte du jour_ and observing in a

jovial stentorian voice that he felt like a man returned from exile.

Fifteen years--and it must be fifteen years--is a long stretch. . . .

'Oh, damn your Italian,' said Farrell suddenly, dropping the card.

'In the old days we used to make orders on our fingers, in the dumb

alphabet, and risk what came.'

"By this time he had Giovanni, and several anarchists at the nearer

tables, properly scared. But he picked up the card and went on,

innocent as a judge,' We used to have a code in those days.

For instance, you crooked one finger over your nose and that meant

'sea-urchins.'' 'Why?' I asked. 'That was the code,' Farrell

explained. 'They used to have a speciality in sea-urchins, straight

from the Mediterranean. You rubbed a soupsong of garlic into them

with three drops of paprika. . . . Now what do you say to

sea-urchins?'

"'Nothing, as a rule,' said I. 'Safer with oysters, isn't it?

They don't explode.' I dropped this out just to try its effect on the

waiter, and he blanched. One or two of our _convives_ began to

clear.

"Farrell ordered two dozen of oysters, to start with, and sent a

runner out for--no, Otty, I won't say it again--for two bottles of

Perrier-Jouet; _two_ bottles and '96, mark you. On hearing this

command about a dozen _habitues_ of the 'Catalafina' arose hastily,

drained their glasses and vanished.

"Farrell perceived it not. He had picked up the card again and was

ordering some infernal broth made of mussels and I-don't-know-what.

'What do you say to follow?' he asked me.

"'Something light,' I suggested. 'Liver of blaspheming Jew, for

choice: it sounds like another speciality of this kitchen.'

"In the interval before the wine was brought Farrell gave me a short

account of the meeting he had just left: and he didn't lighten the

atmosphere of suspicion around us by suddenly sinking his voice to a

kind of conspirator's whisper. The meeting (it appeared) had been

lively, and more than lively. Our small incursion--or the

Professor's, rather--had been a fool to it. For the Professor's

loyal pupils, stung by that letter in the _Times_, had organised a

counter-demonstration. 'Their behaviour,' Farrell reported, 'was

unbridled.' They would hardly allow me a hearing. I give you my

word--and I wish Sir Roderick to know it--I was prepared to tell them

that information had come to me which put a different complexion on

the whole case. I was even prepared to tell them that, while I

should ever insist on the South London University College and all

similar institutions being subject to a more public control with an

increased representation of local rate-payers on their governing

bodies, I was confident that in this particular case the charge had

been too hasty. . . . I have the notes of my speech in my great-coat

pocket; I'll give them to you later and beg you as a favour to show

them to Sir Roderick. But what was the use, when they started booing

me because I wore evening dress?'

"'Why did you?' I asked.

"'Because, as I tried to explain, I had another engagement to keep

immediately after the Meeting--a Conversatsiony, as I put it to

them.'

"'Then perhaps,' said I, 'they took exception to some details of the

costume--for instance, your wearing a silk handkerchief, and crimson

at that, tucked in between your shirt-front and your white

waistcoat.'

"'Is that wrong?' Farrell asked anxiously. 'Maria used to insist on

it. She said it looked neglijay. . . . But I suppose fashions alter

in these little details.' He stood up, removed the handkerchief, and

stowed it in a tail-pocket.

"'That's better,' said I.

"'I'm not above taking a hint,' said he, 'from one as knows.

It'll be harder to get at. . . . But I don't believe, if you'll

excuse me, that any one of these students, as they call themselves,

ever wore an evening suit in his life--unless 'twas a hired one.

No, sir; they came prepared for mischief. They meant to wreck the

Meeting, and had brought along bags of cayenne pepper, and pots of

chemicals to stink us out. They opened one--phew! And I have

another, captured from them, in the pocket of my greatcoat on the

rack, there. I'll show it to you by and by. Luckily our stewards

had wind, early in the afternoon, that some such game was afoot, and

had posted a body of bruisers conveniently, here and there, about the

hall. So in the end they were thrown out, one by one--yes, sir,

ignominiously. It don't add to one's respect for public life,

though.'

"At this point the wine made its appearance, and--if you'll believe

me--it was genuine: Perrier-Jouet, '96. A little while on the ice

might have improved it, but we gave it no time. The oysters arrived

too; but they were tired, I think. Something was wrong with them,

anyhow. . . . Then--as I seem to remember having told you--Farrell

put down three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach."

"You did mention it," said I; "somewhere in the dim and distant

past."

"For my part," went on Jimmy seriously, "my potations were moderate.

After trying the first oyster, I was sober enough to let the others

alone. Then came on the alleged mussel-soup. I tried it and laid

down my spoon. . . . Do you happen to know, Otty, which develops the

quicker typhoid or ptomaine? and if they are, by any chance, mutually

exclusive? Farrell will like to know.

"He swallowed it all. But when he had done he looked full in the

eyes and said in a loud, unfaltering voice, 'This restarong is no

longer what it was.'

"'The champagne is, and better,' I consoled him.

"'Well, what do you say now,' he asked,' to a pig's trotter farced

with pimento? _That_ sounds appetising, at any rate.'

"I think it was at this point, accurately, that I began to suspect

him of having exceeded or of being on the verge of excess. But the

suspicion no sooner crossed my mind than he set it at rest by getting

up and walking across the room to his great-coat, on the rack by the

door. His gait was perfectly steady. He drew certain articles from

the pockets, returned with them, and laid them on the table:

a cigar-case, a mysterious round box of white metal--sort of box you

buy 'Blanco' in--and another round object concealed in a crushed

paper-bag. He opened the first.

"'Have a cigar,' he invited me. 'They smoke between the courses in

this place--proper thing to do.'

"'Sanitary precaution,' I suggested. 'I'll be content with a

cigarette for the present. What are your other disinfectants?'

"He laughed, very suddenly and violently. 'Disinfectants?'

he chortled; 'that's a good 'un! They're exhibits, my dear

sir--pardon-liberty-calling-you-Dear-sir. Stewards collected a

dozen, these infernal machines--'

"'There's no need to shout,' said I. No, Otty I was sober.

. . . But I looked around and it struck me that the faces at the

near tables were bright, and white, and curiously distinct in the

cigarette-smoke.

"'I am not shouting,' Farrell protested: but he was, and at that

moment. 'Disinfectants? That box, there--there's a bottle inside--

sulphuretted hydrogen. T'other joker's a firework of sorts.

I brought 'em along for evidence. . . . Wha's that?' He jerked

himself bolt upright, staring at a dish the waiter held under his

nose.

"'It's the _tete de veau en spaghetti_ you ordered, sir,' said

Giovanni.

"'Did I? I don't remember it. Do _you_ remember my ordering

tait-de-whatever it calls itself?' he asked me earnestly.

"Well, I couldn't, and I said so.

"'If I did,' commanded Farrell, 'take it away and let me forget it.

This place is not what it was. . . . Take it away, you Corsican

Brother, and bring me the bill! Look here,' said he as Giovanni

departed. 'We'll get out of this and try something better. What do

you say to looking in at the Ritz?' He lit his cigar and poured out

more champagne.

"'As you like,' said I. 'Let's get out of this anyway. For my part,

I've had enough.'

"'Well, _I_ haven't,' said he, and fixed a stare on me.

'Oh, I see what you mean. I'm drunk. . . . It's no use your

pretending,' he caught me up argumentatively. 'I've taken too much

t'drink. Tiring day. Hope you're not a prude?'

"'Well then,' I confessed, 'it did strike me you were punishing the

other fellow a bit too fast in the opening rounds. But you walked

over to your corner, just now, steady as a soldier--'

"'Peculiarity of mine,' he explained. 'Ought t'have warned you.

Takes me in head, long before legs. Do you a sprint down the

street--even money--when we're outside. . . . Wha's this? Oh, the

bill. . . . Thought it was more spaghetti. . . . Yes, I know. . . .

Custom of house . . . pay the signora in the brass cage. My dear

sir, if you'll 'scuse fam'liarity--'

"'Right,' said I, as he dived a hand into his pocket and fetched out

a fistful of coin. 'Here's half-a-crown for Giovanni--he will now

run along and poison somebody else. This being your show, I further

abstract two sovereigns for the bill. I shall, I perceive, have to

hand you ninepence in cash with the receipt. . . . But since you are

intoxicated and I am what in any less sepulchral caravanserai might

be described as merry, let us order our retreat with military

precision. First, then, I fetch you yonder magnificent garment which

has been drawing revolutionary hatred upon us ever since we

entered . . .'

"'It was a present from Maria,' he said, as I helped him into it.

'Her last. She said it was a real sable.'

"'She spoke truthfully,' I assured him. 'Now gather up these light

articles and steer for the door as accurately as you can, while I

gather up my inexpensive paletot and pay at the desk.'

"'If I had my way with this blasted restarong,' he observed with

sudden venom,' I'd raze it to the ground!'

"I walked over to the desk. I was right in supposing that ninepence

was the sum I should receive from the Esmeralda behind the brass

barrier. But her eyes were bright and interrogated me: the brass

trellis between us shone also with an unnatural lustre: I was dealing

with another man's money, and it seemed incumbent on me to count the

change twice, with care.

"While I was thus engaged, Farrell went past me for the door with the

shuffle and hard breathing of an elephant pursued by a forest fire.

"'Hurry!' he gasped.

"'What is it?' I demanded, catching him up on the fifth stair.

"He panted. 'I couldn't help it. . . . Sodom and Gomorrah

. . . basaltic, I've heard . . . we'd better run!'

"'What the devil have you done?' I asked, close to his ear.

"'Opened that stink-pot,' Farrell answered, taking two steps at a

time. He gained the pavement and paused, turning on me.

"'Lucky they can't afford to keep a commissionaire.--How long do

these things take, as a rule, before going off?'

"'What things?' I asked.

"'Maroons, don't you call 'em?' said he, feeling in a foolish sort of

way at his breast-pocket, as if for his pince-nez. 'I got the

slow-match going with the end of my cigar, careless-like. How long

do they take as a rule?'

"Well, a handsome detonation below-stairs answered him upon that

instant.

"Farrell clutched my arm, and we ran."

NIGHT THE SIXTH.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE PICTUREDROME.

"Farrell could sprint," continued Jimmy. "You may have noticed that

a lot of these round-bellied men have quite a good turn of speed for

a short course. In spite of his fur coat he led by a yard or two:

but this was partly because I hung back a little, on the chance of

having to fight a rear-guard action.

"I could hear no shouts or footsteps in our wake, and this struck me

as strange at the time. On second thoughts, however, I dare say the

management and frequenters of the 'Catalafina' have more than a

bowing acquaintance with infernal machines. A daisy by the river's

brim . . . to them a simple maroon would be nothing to write home

about, nor the sort of incident to justify telephoning for an

inquisitive police. By the mercy of Heaven, too, we encountered no

member of the Force in our flight. I suppose that constables are

rare in Soho.

"Farrell led for a couple of blocks as an American writer would put

it; dived down a side street to the right; sped like an arrow for a

couple of hundred yards; then darted around another turning, again to

the right. I put on a spurt and caught him by his fur collar.

'Look here,' I said, 'I don't hear anyone in chase. We are the

wicked fleeing, whom no man pursueth. I don't quite understand why.

Maybe sulphuretted hydrogen's their favourite perfume. They don't

use it in their bath, because . . . well, never mind. What I have to

talk at this moment is mathematics. I don't know how you reason it

out; but to me it's demonstrable that if we keep turning to the right

like this we shall find ourselves back at the door of your infernal

'Catalafina.' Inevitably,' I said, nodding at him in a way

calculated to convince.

"'Allow me,' he answered, and promptly wrung my hand. 'I ought

t'have warned you--I always run in circles, this condish'n.

Bad habit: never could break myself. 'Scuse me; haven't been drunk

for years.' He pulled himself up and eyed me earnestly. 'Wha's your

suggest'n under shirkumstanches? Retrace steps?'

"'As I figure it out,' said I, sweet and reasonable, 'that also would

lead us back to the 'Catalafina.''

"'Quite so,' he agreed, nodding back as I nodded. 'Case hopelesh,

then. No posh'ble way out.'

"'Well, I don't know,' said I. 'If we go straight on until we find a

turning to the left. . . . And look here,' I put in, grabbing him

again, for he was starting to run. 'Since there's no one in chase

apparently, I suggest that we walk. It looks better, if we meet a

constable: though there seems to be none about ... so far.'

"'Scand'lous!' said Farrell.

"'What's scandalous?' I asked.

"'Lax'ty Metr'pl't'n P'lice.' He took me by a buttonhole, finger and

thumb. 'Dish--district notorious. One-worst-Lond'n. Dish--damn the

word--distr'ck like this, anything might happen any moment.

Mus' speak about it. . . . You just wait till I'm on County

Counshle.'

"I took him by the arm and steered him. I did it beautifully, though

it's undeniable that I had taken wine to excess. I did it so

beautifully that we met not a living soul--or if we did, Otty, I

failed to remark it. . . . I don't suppose it was really happening as

I felt it was happening. I just tell how it felt. . . . Farrell and

I were ranging arm-in-arm through a quarter that had mysteriously

hushed and hidden itself at our approach. There were pianos tinkling

from upper storeys: there were muffled choruses with banjo or guitar

accompaniments humming up from the bowels of the earth: there were

chinks of light between blinds, under doorways, down areas.

There was even a flare of light, now and again, blaring to gramophone

accompaniment across the street from a gin-palace or a corner public.

But the glass of these places of entertainment was all opaque, and

there were no loungers on the kerb in front of any. . . . I held

Farrell tightly beneath the elbow, and steered through this enchanted

purlieu.

"'S'pose you know where you're heading?' said Farrell after a while.

"'On these occasions,' said I, 'one steers by the pole-star.'

"'Where is it?' he demanded.

"'At this moment, so far as I can judge,' I assured him, 'it is

shining accurately on the back of your neck.'

"Of a sudden we found ourselves at the head of a pavement lined with

the red stern-lights of a rank of cabs and taxis. I had not the

vaguest notion of its name: but the street was obviously one of those

curious ones, unsuspected, and probably non-existent by day, in which

lurk the vehicles that can't be discovered when it's raining and you

want to get home from a theatre. 'Glow-worms!' announced Farrell.

"I tightened my grip under his funny-bone, and hailed the first

vehicle. It was a hansom. 'Engaged?' I asked.

"'All depends where you're going, sir,' said the cabby.

"'Wimbledon,' shouted Farrell, and broke away from me.

'Wimbledon for pleasure and the simple life! . . . You'll excuse

me--' he dodged towards the back of the cab: 'on these occasions--

always make a point take number.'

"'It's all right,' I spoke up to the cabman. 'My friend means the

Ritz. I'm taking him there.'

"'I shouldn't, if I was you,' said the man sourly; 'not unless he's

an American.'

"'He is,' said I, 'and from Texas. I am charged to deliver him at

the Ritz, where all will be explained': and I dashed around to the

rear of the cab, collared Farrell, and hoicked him inboard. . . .

"The cab was no sooner under way and steering west-by-south than

Farrell clutched hold of me and burst into tears on my shoulder.

It appeared, as I coaxed it from him, that his mind had cast back,

and he was lamenting the dearth of policemen in Soho.

"The hole above us opened, and the cabman spoke down.

"'Are you sure you meant the Ritz, sir--really?'

"'I don't want to compromise you,' said I. 'Drop us at the head of

St. James's Street.'

"He did so; took his fee, and hesitated for a moment before turning

his horse. 'Sure you can manage the gentleman, sir?' he asked.

"'Sure, thank you,' said I, and he drove away slowly. I steered

Farrell into the shelter of the Ritz's portico, facing Piccadilly."

"_They draw the blinds now (put in Otway) under the Lighting Order:

but in those days the Ritz was given--I won't say to advertising its

opulence--but to allowing a glimpse of real comfort to the itinerant

millionaire. Jimmy resumes:--_

"'Now, look here,' said I, indicating the show inside: 'I wasn't

hungry to start with: and I suggest we've both inhaled enough garlic

to put us off the manger for a fortnight. As for the bucket, you've

exceeded already, and I have taken more than is going to be good for

me--a subtle difference which I won't pause here and now to explain.

It's a kindly suggestion of yours," said I; 'but I put it to you that

it's time for good little Progressives to be in their beds, and

you'll just take a taxi from the rank on the slope, trundle home to

Wimbledon and go bye-bye.'

"Farrell wasn't listening. He had his shoulders planted against a

pillar of the portico, and had fallen into a brown study, staring in

upon the giddy throng.

"'When we look,' said he slowly, like an orator in a dream--'when we

are privileged to contemplate, as we are at this moment, such a

spectacle of the idle Ritz--excuse me, the idle Rich--and their

goings on, and countless poor folk in the East End with nothing

but a herring--if that--between them and to-morrow's sunrise--

well, I don't know how it strikes you, but to me it is an Object

Lesson. You'll excuse me, Mr.--I haven't the pleasure to remember

your name at this moment. I connect it with my Maria's two

pianners--something between the Broadwood and the Collard and

Collard--you'll excuse me, but putting myself in the place of the

angel Gabriel, merely for the sake of argument, this is the sort of

way it would take _me_!'

"Before I could jump for him, Otty, he lifted his hand and flung

something--I don't know what it was, for a certainty, but I believe

it was the 'Blanco' tin of sulphuretted hydrogen, that he had been

nursing all the way from the 'Catalafina.' . . . At any rate the

missile hit. There was an agreeable crash of plate glass, and we ran

for our lives.

"You know the long rank of taxis on the slope of Piccadilly.

We pelted for it. Before an alarm whistle sounded I had gained the

fifth in the row. The drivers were all gathered in their shelter,

probably discussing politics. I made for a car, cried to Farrell to

jump in, hoicked up the works like mad, and made a spring for the

seat and the steering-gear. Amid the alarm-whistles sounding from

the Ritz I seemed to catch a shrill scream close behind me, and

looked around to make sure that my man was inside. The door

slammed-to, and I steered out for a fair roadway.

"There was a certain amount of outcry in the rear. But I opened-out

down the slope and soon had it well astern. We sailed past Hyde Park

Corner, down Knightsbridge, and cut along Brompton Road into Fulham

Road, and rounded into King's Road, cutting the kerb a trifle too

fine. Speed rather than direction being my object for the moment,

Otty, I rejoiced in a clear thoroughfare and let her rip for Putney

Bridge. There was a communication tube in the taxi, and for some

while it had been whistling in my ear, with calls and outcries in

high falsetto interjected between the blasts. 'Funny dog's

ventriloquising,' thought I, and paid no further attention to the

noises. Our pace was such, I couldn't be distracted from the

steering. . . . I was quite sober by this time: sober, but

considerably exhilarated.

"My spirit soared as we took the bridge with a rush, cleared the High

Street and breasted Putney Hill for the Heath. The night was clear,

with a southerly breeze. The stars shone, and I seemed to inhale all

the scents of a limitless prairie, wafted past the wind-screen from

the heath and the stretch of Wimbledon Common beyond. . . . Why

should I miss anything of this glorious chance? Why should I tamely

deliver Farrell at a house the name of which I had forgotten, the

situation of which was unknown to me, the domestics of which, when I

found it by painful inquiry, would probably receive me with cold

suspicion, as a misleader of middle-age? In fine, why should I not

strike the Common and roam there, letting the good car have her head

while Farrell slept himself sober. A line or two of the late Robert

Browning's waltzed in my head:"

'What if we still ride on, we two?'

'--Ride, ride together, for ever ride.'

"I brought the car gently to a halt on the edge of the heath, under

the stars, climbed out, and opened the door briskly.

"'Look here, Farrell,' I announced. 'I've a notion--'

"'Then it's more than _I_ have, of the way you're treating a lady!'

answered a voice; and out stepped a figure in skirts! By George,

Otty, you might have knocked me down with a--with a feather boa:

which was just what this apparition seemed preparing to do.

I had brought the taxi to rest close under a gas-lamp, and in the

light of it she confronted me, slightly swaying the hand which

grasped the boa.

"'Good Lord! ma'am,' I gasped,' how in the world . . . ?'

"'That's what I want to know,' said she, with more show of menace.

'What is your game, young man? Abduction?'

"'I swear to you, ma'am,' I stammered, 'that my intentions would be

strictly honourable if I happened to have any. . . . I may be more

intoxicated than I felt up to a moment ago. . . . But let us, at all

events, keep our heads. It seems the only way out of this

predicament, that we keep strictly in touch with reality. Very well,

then. . . . You entered this vehicle, a middle-aged gentleman

something more than three sheets in the wind. You emerge from it

apparently sober and of the opposite sex. If any explanation be

necessary,' I wound up hardily, 'I imagine it to be due to _me_, who

have driven you thus far under a false impression--and, I may add, at

no little risk to the transpontine traffic.'

"'Look here!' said this astonishing female. 'I don't know how it's

happened, but I believe I am addressing a gentleman--'

"'I hope so,' said I, as she paused.

"'Well, then,' she demanded, smoothing her skirt, and seating herself

on the edge of the grass, under the lamplight. 'The question is,

what do you propose to do? I place myself in your hands,

unreservedly.'

"I managed to murmur that she did me honour. 'But with your leave,

ma'am,' said I, 'we'll defer that point for a moment while you tell

me how on earth you have managed to change places with my friend,

whom with my own eyes I saw enter this vehicle. It must have been a

lightning change anyhow: for all the way from Piccadilly I have been

priding myself on our speed.'

"'Change places?' she exclaimed. 'Change places? I'm a respectable

married woman, young sir: and as such I'd ask you what else was due

to myself when he sat down on my lap without even being interjuiced?'

"I made a step to the door of the taxi, but turned and came back.

'He's inside, then?' I asked.

"'Of course he's inside,' she retorted. 'What d'you take me for?

A body-snatcher? Inside he is, and snoring like a pig. Wake him up

and ask him if I've be'aved short of a lady from the first.'

"'He's incapable of it, ma'am,' said I. 'Or, rather, I should say,

_you_ are incapable of it. By which I mean that my friend is

incapable of--er--involving you otherwise than innocently in a

situation of which--er--you are both incapable, respectively.

Appearances may be against us--'

"'Look here,' she chipped in. 'Have you been drinking too?'

"'A little,' I admitted. 'But you may trust me to be discreet.

How this responsibility comes to be mine, I can't guess: but it is

urgent that I restore you to your home, or at any rate find you a

decent lodging for the night. Where is your home?' I asked.

"'Walsall,' said she. 'And I wish I had never left it!'

"'Well, ma'am,' said I, 'I won't be so ungallant as to echo that

regret. But, speaking for the moment as a taxi-driver, I put it that

Walsall is a tidy distance. Were you, by some process that passes my

guessing, on your way to Walsall when we, as it seems, intercepted

you in Piccadilly?'

"'Not at all,' she answered. 'On the contrary, I was wanting to get

to Shorncliffe Camp.'

"I mused. 'From Walsall? . . . They must have opened a new route

lately.'

"'It's this way,' she told me. 'My husband's a sergeant in the Royal

Artillery. He's stationed at Shorncliffe: and I was to meet him

there to-night, travelling through London. When I got to London,

what with the shops and staring at Buckingham Palace, and one thing

and another, I missed the last train down. So, happening to find

myself by a line of taxis, I had a mind to ask what the fare might be

down to Shorncliffe and tell the man that my husband was expecting me

and would pay at the other end. I was that tired, I got into the

handiest taxi--that looked smart and comfortable, with a little lamp

inside and a nice bunch of artificial flowers made up to look like my

Christian name--And what do you think that is? Guess.'

"'I'm hopeless with plants, ma'am," said I, looking hard at the taxi.

'Might it be Daisy?'

"'No, it ain't,' said she. 'There now, you'll take a long time

guessing, at that rate. It's Petunia. . . . Well, then as I was

saying, I got in and sat back in the cushions, waiting for the

Shofer, if that's how you pronounce it; and I reckon I must have

closed my eyes, for the next thing I remember was this friend of

yours sitting plump in my lap without so much as asking leave.

Before I could recover myself we were off. And now, I put it to you

as a gentleman, What's to become of me? For, as perhaps I ought to

warn you, my husband's a terror when he's roused.'

"'He's at Shorncliffe. We won't rouse him to-night,' I assured her.

'It's funny,' I went on, 'how often the simplest explanation will--'

But I left that sentence unfinished. 'Have you any relatives in

London?' I asked brightly.

"She hesitated, but at length confessed she had a sister resident in

Pimlico.

"'Ah!' said I. 'She married beneath her, perhaps?'

"Mrs. Petunia looked at me suspiciously in the lamplight. 'How did

you guess that?' she asked.

"'Simplicity itself, ma'am,' I answered. 'She could hardly have done

less. And from Eaton Square to Pimlico, what is it but a step? . . .

Or, you may put it down to a brain-wave. Yes, ma'am. And I'm going

to have another."

"I stepped to the door of the taxi, threw it open, and shouted to

Farrell to tumble out.

"'Wha's matter?' he asked sleepily. 'Where are we?'

"'We're on the edge of Putney Heath,' said I.

"'Ri'!' said he in a murmur. 'You're true friend. First turning

to the left and keep straight on. Second gate on Common pasht

pillar-box.'

"I haled him forth. 'Look here,' said I. 'Pull yourself together.

I find that we've, in our innocence, abducted this lady, who happened

to be resting in the taxi when you jumped in.'

"Farrell, making a mental effort, blinked hard. 'That accounts for

it,' said he. 'Thought I felt something wrong when I sat down.'

"'That being so,' I went on, 'you will agree that our first duty, as

we are chivalrous men, is to restore her to her relatives.'

"'B'all means,' he agreed heartily. 'R'shtore her. Why not?'

"'As it happens, she has a sister living in Pimlico.'

"'They all--' he began: but I was on the watch and fielded the ball

smartly.

"'And you, unless I'm mistaken,' said I, 'are a member of the

National Liberal Club?'

"'We all--' he began again, and checked himself to gaze on me with

admiration. 'Shay that again,' he demanded. "'You are a member of

the National Liberal Club?' I repeated.

"'I am,' he owned; 'but I couldn' pr'nounce it just at this moment,

not for a tenner. An' you've said it twice! Tha's what I call

carryin' liquor like a gentleman: or else you've studied

voice-producsh'n. Wish I'd studied voice-producsh'n, your age.

Usheful, County Council.'

"'County Council!' put in the lady sharply. 'Don't tell me!'

"'He's but a candidate at present, ma'am,' I explained.

"She eyed us both suspiciously. 'No kid, is it?' she asked.

'You ain't a dress-clothes detective? What? . . . Then, as between a

lady and a gentleman, why haven't you introduced him? It's usual.'

"'So it is, ma'am. Forgive me, this is Mr. Peter Farrell.

Mr. Farrell, the--the--Lady Petunia.'

"'And very delicately you done it, young man.' The Lady Petunia

bowed amiably. 'This ain't no--this isn't--no time nor place for

taking advantages and compromising.' She pitched her voice higher

and addressed Farrell. 'I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, if I

caught your name correctly. Mr. Farrell?--and of the National

Liberal Club? The address is sufficient, sir. It carries its own

recommendation--though I had hoped for the Constitutional.'

"'It's still harder to pronounce, ma'am,' I assured her. 'That is my

friend's only reason.'

"'It was you that started my-ladying me,' she claimed. 'Why don't

you keep it up? I like it.'

"'My dear Lady Petunia,' said I, 'as you so well put it, the National

Liberal Club carries its own recommendation. What's more, it's going

to be the saving of us.'

"'I don't see connecshun,' objected Farrell. 'They don't admit--'

"'They'll admit you,' I said; 'and that's where you'll sleep

to-night. The night porter will hunt out a pair of pyjamas and

escort you up the lift. Oh, he's used to it. He gets politicians

from Bradford and such places dropping in at all hours. Don't try

the marble staircase--it's winding and slippery at the edge. . . .

And don't stand gaping at me in that helpless fashion, but get a move

on your intelligence. . . . We're dealing with a lady in distress,

and that's our first consideration. Now I can't take you on to

Wimbledon, however willing to be shut of you: first, because it would

take time, and next because I'm not sure how much petrol's left in

the machine. So back we turn for be lights of merry London.

We deposit the Lady Petunia at--what's the address, ma'am?"

"'Never you mind,' said she helpfully. 'Put me down somewhere near

the end of Vauxhall Bridge, and I'll find my way.'

"'Spoken like an angel,' said I. 'And then, Farrell, you're for the

National Liberal Club. The servants there are not known to me, but

I'll bet on their asking fewer questions than I should have to answer

your housekeeper.'

"I think Farrell was about to demand time for consideration. But the

Lady Petunia gripped him by the arm. 'Loveadove!' she exclaimed.

'There's a copper coming down the road!' We bundled him back into

the taxi. 'It's a real copper, too,' she warned me as she sprang in

at his heels. 'Spark her up, and hurry!--I can tell the sound of

their boots at fifty yards.'

"Well, Otty, I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and she.--She was

right. The policeman came up and drew to a halt as, without an

indecent show of haste, I dropped into the driver's seat, started up

and slewed the wheel round.

"'Anything wrong?' he asked.

"'There was,' said I. 'Over-succulence in the bivalves: but she'll

work home, I think.'

"I pipped him Good night, and we sailed down the hill in some style.

Sharp to the right, and by and by I opened a common on my right--

Wandsworth? Clapham?--Don't ask _me_. I named it Clapham. 'To your

tents, O Clapham!' I shouted as I went: but the warning was

superfluous. As the poet--wasn't it Wordsworth?--remarked on a

famous occasion, Dear God! the very houses seemed asleep. . . .'

"It must have been five or six minutes later that our petrol gave out

and my trusted taxi came gently to a halt in the middle of the

roadway. I climbed out, opened the door and explained. 'Step out,

quick,' said I, 'and make down this street to the left. We must

tangle the track a bit, with this piece of evidence behind us.'

"The Lady Petunia considerately took Farrell's arm. 'Why, he can

walk!' she announced. 'I'm all ri'!' Farrell assured her. 'You may

be yet,' she answered, 'if you keep your head shut.' Farrell asked

me if I considered that a ladylike expression. To this she retorted

that she couldn't bear for anyone to speak crossly to her: it broke

her heart.

"'Capital!' said I. 'Voices a tone lower, please--but keep it up,

and you're husband and wife, returning from an evening at the

theatre. Taxi broken down--wife peevish at having to walk remaining

distance. Keep it up, and I'll undertake to steer you past half the

police in London.'

"Well, I steered them past two, and without a question. Not one of

us knew our bearings, but we were making excellent weather of it, and

at length came out by the by-streets upon a fine broad thoroughfare

with an arc-lamp at the corner.

"I stared up at the building on my left, against which he lamp shone.

There was no street-sign at the angle, and an inscription in large

gilt letters on the facade was not very hopeful--ROYAL SOUTH LONDON

PICTUREDROME--yet to some extent reassuring. We were at any rate

lost in London; and not in Byzantium, as we might have deduced from

other architectural details.

"'And yet I am not wholly sure,' said I. 'We will ask the next

policeman. _Picturedrome_ now--barbaric union of West and East.--

Surely the word must be somewhere in Gibbon. Ever met it in Gibbon,

Farrell?'

"'No, I haven't,' he answered testily. 'Never was in Gibbon, to my

knowledge. Where is it? . . . But I'll tell you what!' he wound up,

fierce and sudden; 'I've met with too many policemen to-night;

avenuesh, we've been passin'. Seems to me neighb'rhood infested.

Not like Soho. 'Nequal dishtribush'n bobbies. 'Nequal distribush'n

everything. Cursh--curse--modern shivilzash'n--damn!'

"'Our taxi,' I mused, 'may have been a magic one. We are in a dream,

and the Lady Petunia is part of it. She may vanish at any moment--'

"But Petunia had turned about for a glance along the street behind

us. Instead of vanishing, she clawed my arm sharply, suppressed a

squeal, and pointed. . . . Fifty yards away stood a taxi, and two

policemen beside it, flashing their lanterns over it and into its

interior.

"Between two flashes I recognised it. . . . It was _mine_, my Arab

taxi, my beautiful, my own. . . . Farrell's fatal propensity for

steering to the right had fetched us around, almost full circle.

"There she stood, with her mute appealing headlights. 'Wha's

matter?' asked Farrell. 'Oh, I say--Oh, come! _More_ of 'em?'

"'I dragged him and Petunia back into the shadow under the side-wall

of the Picturedrome, and leaned back against the edifice while I

mopped my brow. My shoulder-blade encountered the sharp edge of a

rainwater pipe. A bright and glorious inspiration took hold of me.

Farrell had made all the running, so far: it was time for me to

assert my manhood.

"'Wait here,' I whispered, 'and all will be well. In three

minutes--'

"'Here, I say!' interposed the Lady Petunia. 'You're not going to do

a bilk?'

"'Dear lady,' I answered, 'for at least twenty minutes you have been

complaining, and pardonably, that my friend and I have enjoyed the

pleasure of your company yet repaid it with no form of entertainment.

I fear we cannot offer you Grand Opera. But if your taste inclines

to the Movies--'

"'Get along, you silly,' she rebuked me. 'Ain't you sober enough to

see the place is closed?'

"'If I were sure it wouldn't be used as evidence against me,' I

answered gallantly, 'I should say that Love laughs at Locksmiths.

Here, take my overcoat; my watch also--as evidence of good faith and

because it gets in one's way, climbing. . . . Wait by this door,

which (you can see) is an Emergency Exit, and within five minutes you

shall be reposing in a plush seat and admitting that the finish

crowns the work.'"

"Well, at this hour, Otty, I won't dwell on my contribution to the

evening's pleasure. Besides, it was nothing to boast of. I was a

member of the Oxford Alpine Club, you know: and the water-pipe

offered no difficulties. The stucco was in poor condition--I should

say that it hardens more easily in Byzantium--but for difficulty

there was nothing comparable with New College Chapel, or the friable

masonry and the dome of the Radcliffe.

"I let myself down through a skylight into the bowels of the place:

found, with the help of matches, the operating box and the gallery,

switched on the lights, and shinned down a pillar to the stalls.

After that, to open the Emergency Exit and admit my audience was what

the detective stories call the work of a moment. I re-closed the

door carefully, and climbed back to manipulate the lantern.

"I had helped to work one of these shows once, at a Sunday School

treat--or a Primrose Fete--forget which--down in the country.

It's quite simple when you have the hang of it. . . . I made a mull

with the first reel: got it upside down; and Petunia, from somewhere

deep under the gallery, called up 'Gar'n!' It was a Panorama of

Pekin, anyway, and dull enough whichever way you took it.

"After that we fairly spun through 'The Cowpuncher's Stunt'--a train

robbery--'The Missing Million,' and a man tumbling out of the top

storey of Flat-Iron Building, New York. He went down, storey after

storey, to the motto of 'Keep on Moving,' and just before he hit the

ground he began to tumble up again. On his way up he smacked all the

faces looking out at the windows--I often wonder, Otty, how they get

people to do these things: but I suppose the risk's taken into

account in the pay.

"Farrell took a great fancy to 'Keep on Moving.' Up to this we had

been snug as fleas in a blanket; but now he started to make such a

noise, encoring, that I had to step down to the gallery and lean over

it and request Petunia to take the cover off the piano and play

something, if she could, to deaden the outcries. 'Something domestic

on the loud pedal,' I suggested. 'Create an impression that we're

holding a rehearsal after hours.'

"She came forward, looked up, and said that I reminded her of Romeo

and Juliet upside down.

"'Of course!' I explained. 'We're in Pekin. Get to the piano,

quick.'

"'I've forgotten my scales,' she answered back, between Farrell's

calls of ''Core! 'Core!'--'Will it do if I sit on the keys?'

"She went to the instrument. 'Often, and _con expressione_!'

I shouted; 'and back-pedal for all you are worth!' Then I climbed

down and collared Farrell, for the police had begun to hammer on the

door. I grabbed for his head: but it must have been by the collar I

caught him--that being where he wore most fur. . . . There was a

stairway between the stalls and the gallery. I whirled him up it,

and leaned over the gallery rail, calling to Petunia. She had

dragged off the piano-cover and was rolling herself up in it. . . .

Then, as the police crashed in, I switched off the lights.

"Somehow or another I hauled Farrell up and on to the flat roof.

'Now,' said I, after prospecting a bit in a hurry, 'the great point

is to keep cool. You follow me over this parapet, lower yourself,

and drop on to the next roof. It's a matter of sixteen feet at most,

and then we'll find a water-pipe.'

"But he wouldn't. He said that he suffered from giddiness on a

height and had done so from the age of sixteen, but that he was game

for any number of policemen. He'd seen too many policemen, and

wanted to reduce the number. I left him clawing at a chimney-pot,

and--well, I told you the stucco was brittle, and you saw the state

of his clothes. I think he must have got out a brick or two and put

up a fight.

"For my part, I slid three-quarters of the way down a pipe, lost my

grip somehow and tumbled sock upon the serried ranks of a brutal and

licentious constabulary. They broke my fall, and afterwards I did my

best. But, as Farrell had justly complained, there were too many of

them. So now you know," Jimmy wound up with a yawn.

"What about the Lady Petunia?" I asked.

"Oh!" He woke up with a start and laughed: "I forgot--and it's the

cream, too. . . . The police who grabbed me had been hastily summoned

by whistle. They rushed me up two side streets and towards a

convenient taxi. It was convenient: it was stationary. . . . It was

my own, own taxi, still sitting. One constable shouted for its

driver; another had almost pushed me in when he started to apologise

to somebody inside. It was Petunia, wrapped in slumber. She must

have slipped out by the Emergency Exit and taken action with great

presence of mind. I don't know if they managed to wake her up, or

what happened to her." Jimmy yawned again. "What's the time, Otty?

It must be any hour of the morning. . . . _I_ don't know. She forgot

to return my watch."

NIGHT THE SEVENTH.

THE OUTRAGE.

Jephson awoke me at 7.30 as usual. But I dozed for another half an

hour and should have dropped asleep again had it not been that some

little thing--I could not put a name to the worry--kept teasing my

brain; some piece of grit in the machine. An engagement forgotten?

an engagement to be kept?--Nothing very important. . . .

Then I remembered, jumped out of bed, and knocked in at Jimmy's room.

I expected to find him stretched in heavy slumber. But no: he stood

before his dressing-table, tubbed, shaven, half-clothed, and looking

as fresh as paint.

"Hallo!" said he. "Anything wrong?"

"Just occurred to me," said I, "this is the morning you were due to

breakfast with Jack. Thought I'd remind you, in case you might want

to telephone and put him off."

"If I remember," said Jimmy thoughtfully, rummaging in a drawer,

"this Jack's other name is Foe. If it were Ketch, I'd be obliged to

you for ringing him up with that message. . . . It's all right.

Plenty of time. Breakfast and conversation with the learned prepared

for me right on my way to the Seat of Justice. Providence--and you

can call it no less--couldn't have ordered it better. Here, help me

to choose.--What's the neatest thing in ties when a man's going to

feel his position acutely?"

Upon this I observed that his infamous way of life seemed to leave

more impression upon his friends than on himself; and stalked back to

my bedchamber.

"Ingrate!" he shouted after me. "When you've seen Farrell!"

So I breakfasted alone, read the papers (which reported that Mr.

Farrell's meeting overnight had been "accompanied by scenes of

considerable disorder "), dealt with some correspondence, and in due

time was taxi'd to Ensor Street. There I found Jimmy on the

penitents' bench, full of sparkling interest in the proceedings of

the court and in the line--a long and variegated one--of his

fellow-indictables. Farrell sat beside him, sprucely dressed but

woebegone. He wore a sort of lamp-shade, of a green colour, over his

eyes, and (as Jimmy put it) "looked the part--Prodigal Son among the

Charlottes." By some connivance--on some faked pretence, I make no

doubt, that I was his legal adviser--the police allowed Jimmy to

cross over and consult me. He informed me that the Professor had put

him up an excellent breakfast of grilled sole and devilled kidneys,

and had afterwards shown him round the laboratory. "Wonderful man,

the Professor! But you should see that dog of his he calls Billy--

hairy little yellow beast that flies into rages like a mad thing, and

then at a word crawls on its belly. Sort of beast that dies on his

master's grave, in the children's books, like any human creature."

The charge was not called on the list until 12.30 or thereabouts.

. . . They say that in England there's one law for the rich and

another for the poor. I don't know about that: but there's one for

the bright and young and another for the middle-aged and sulky.

The police had already let Jimmy down lightly on the charge sheet:

they showed further leniency at the hearing. Even the constable who

faced the Bench with an eye like a damnatory potato contrived to

suggest that he would have left it outside if he could--so

benevolently, so appreciatively he made it twinkle as he gave

evidence. Jimmy tried to take the blame; but the Magistrate, without

relaxing his face, fined him two pounds and mulcted Farrell in five.

He added some scathing remarks upon old men who led their juniors

astray and called themselves Martin Luther when they were nothing of

the sort. I wondered if he knew that he was admonishing a candidate

for County Council honours. I had a notion that he did. His address

lasted half a minute or less, and during it he kept his gaze

implacably fixed on the culprit: but by the working of his under-jaw

and of the muscles below it I seemed to surmise--shall we say--a

certain process of deglutition.

Their fines paid, Jimmy--staunch to the last--brought Farrell forth

to me, who waited outside by the doorstep.

"Look here, Otty; he's in trouble--"

"Of his own making, by all accounts," I put in sternly.

Farrell began to stutter. "A most untoward--er--incident, Sir

Roderick--_most_ untoward! Compromising, I fear?"

"You've lost us the seat, that's all," I told him.

"Oh, I trust not--I trust not!" he protested. "Might the reporters

be--er--"

"Squared?" I suggested.

"Induced--yes, induced--to omit the--er--personal reference?"

"Like the Scarlet Mr. E's," suggested Jimmy, "or the Scarlet

Pimpernel--rather a good name for you, Farrell. Better than Martin

Luther, anyway. The Scarlet Pimpernel, or Two in a Taxi, Not to

Mention the Lady. Or--wait a bit--Peter and Petunia, or Marooned in

Soho. Reader, do you know the 'Catalafina'? If not, let me--"

"Jimmy," I commanded, "don't make an ass of yourself. . . . As for

you, Mr. Farrell, let me remind you of a pretty wise saying of

somebody's--that influence is jolly useful until you have used it.

If I remember, I strained my little stock of it with these reporters

two nights ago."

"I wouldn't jib at expense, Sir Roderick," he whimpered.

"Don't kick him, Otty," Jimmy implored. "He's down. And listen to

me, Farrell," he went on, swinging about. "You can't help it: it's

the Hire System working out through the pores. You don't perspire

what you think you're perspiring, though you're doing it freely

enough. . . . Now, Otty--for my sake--if you don't mind!"

"Well then, Mr. Farrell," said I, "I'm ready to do this much for

you.--We'll find a taxi here and now for the Whips' Offices and take

their advice. Having taken it, I am willing to drive straight back

to your Committee Rooms with the Head Office's decision."

The man's nerves were anywhere. He clung to me for counsel--for mere

company--as he would have clung to anybody.

So we found a taxi and climbed in, all three.

But I did not reach the Whips' Office that day.

There was a hold-up as we neared the bridge, and we to came a dead

stop. I set it down to some ordinary block of traffic, and with a

touch of annoyance: for Farrell by this time was arguing himself out

as a victim of circumstances, and with a feebleness of sophistry that

tried the patience. I remember saying "The long and short of it is,

you've made a fool of yourself. . . . Why on earth can't this fellow

get a move on?"--As though he had heard me, just then the driver

slewed about and shot us back a queer half-humorous glance through

the glass screen.

Jimmy, lolling crossways on one of the little let-down seats with his

leg across the other, caught the glance, sprang up and thrust his

head out at the window.

"Hallo!" said he. "Suffragettes? Dog-fight? . . . Pretty good riot,

anyhow,"--and the next moment he was out on the roadway. I craned up

for a look through the screen, and stepped out in his wake.

Some thirty yards ahead of us, close by the gates of the South London

College, a dense crowd blocked the thoroughfare. It was a curiously

quiet crowd, but it swayed violently under some pressure in the

centre, and broke as we watched, letting through a small body of

police with half a dozen men and youths in firm custody.

My wits gave a leap, and my heart sank on the instant. I stepped to

the taxi door and commanded Farrell to tumble out.

"Here's more of your mess-work, unless I'm mistaken," said I.

"Mine?" He looked at me with a dazed face. "Mine?" he quavered.

"Oh, but what has happened? . . . There would seem to be some

conspiracy. . . ."

"Yes, you interfering ass. Out with you, quick! and we'll talk

later." I turned my shoulder on him as I handed the driver his fare.

"Now follow and keep close to me."

I stepped forward to meet the Sergeant in charge of the convoy.

He would have put me aside. "Sorry, sir, but you must tell your man

to take you round by the next bridge. Traffic closed here--half an

hour, maybe." Then he caught sight of Farrell behind my shoulder,

recognised him, and called his party to a halt. "Excuse me," he

said, with a fine official manner committing him to no approval of

us, "but is this the Candidate? . . . Well, you've come prompt, sir,

but scarcely prompt enough. Situation's in hand, so to speak.

Still you might be useful, getting the crowd to clear off peaceable."

He pondered for a couple of seconds. "Yes, I'll step back with you

to the gate, sirs, and pass you in. You, Wrightson," he spoke up to

a second in command, "take over this little lot and deliver them:

it's all clear ahead. Get back as fast as you can. . . . Now, sirs,

if you'll follow me--there's no danger--the half of 'em no more than

sightseers."

"Just a word, Sergeant," said I, catching up his stride. "I want to

know how this started and how far it has gone."

He glanced at me sideways. "Not on oath, sir, nor official, eh?

What isn't hearsay is opinion, if you understand. Far as I make it

out--but we was caught on the hop, more by ill luck than ill

management--it started with an open-air meetin' right yonder, at the

corner of the Park. Your friend--that is to say Mr. Farrell, if I

make no mistake-"

"Yes, he's Mr. Farrell all right. Go on."

"Well, he was billed to attend, sir; but he didn't turn up."

"He had another engagement," I put in.

"Well, and I did hear some word, too, to that effect," allowed the

Sergeant, with another professional glance, subdolent but correct.

"But, as reported to me, his absence was unfortunate. One or two of

the wrong sort got hold of the mob, and there was a rush for the

College gates. . . . Which the two or three constables did their best

and 'phoned me up."

"Much damage?" I asked.

"Can't say, sir. I was given post at the gates, where for ten

minutes my fellows was kept pretty busy bashing 'em and throwing 'em

out. You see, it being Saturday, most of the students had gone home,

and the porter was took of a heap and ran. . . . Or that's how it was

reported. And whiles we was thus occupied, word came out that the

game was over without need to call reinforcements, if we could hold

the gate. We answered back sayin' if that was all we was doing it

comfortably. Whereupon they began to hand us out the arrests, with

word that some outbuildings had been wrecked and a considerable deal

of glass broken. Lavatories, as I gathered."

"Laboratories," I suggested.

"Very like," the Sergeant agreed; "if you put it so. It struck me as

sounding like the sort of place where you wash your hands. . . .

We was pretty busy just then, or up to that moment; but from

information that reached me, they was trying to wreck some part of

the science buildings."

"One more question," said I--for by this time we had reached the edge

of the crowd. "Do you happen to know if Professor Foe was in the

building at the time?"

"He was not, sir. He had locked up for the day and gone home to his

private house. They fetched him by 'phone. . . . I know, sir, having

received instructions to pass him in: which I did, under escort.

You needn't be anxious about him, if he's a friend of yours."

But I was.

The crowd, as the Sergeant had promised, was curious rather than

vicious; much the sort of crowd that the King's coach will fetch out,

or a big fire; and from this I augured hopefully (correctly, too, as

it proved) that the actual rioters had been little more than a

handful, excited by Saturday's beer and park-oratory. . . .

The average Londoner takes very little truck in municipal politics,

as I'd been deploring for a fortnight on public platforms. It costs

you all your time to get one in ten of him to attend a public

meeting: he's cynical and sits with his back to the ring where a few

earnest men and women, and a number of cranks, are putting it up

against the Vested Interests and the Press.

As we came up, some few recognised Farrell, and raised a cheer. . . .

I dare say that helped: but anyhow the Sergeant worked us through

with great skill, here and there addressing a man good-naturedly and

advising him to go home and take his wages to the missus, because the

fun was over and soon there might be pickpockets about. In thirty

seconds or so we had reached the gate and were admitted.

The porter's lodge had escaped lightly. A trampled flower-bed,

flowerless at this season, and a few broken window-panes, were all

the evidence that the rioters had passed. A little farther on where

the broad carriage-way, that ran straight to the College portico,

threw out branches right and left to the Natural Science Buildings, a

number of ornamental shrubs had been mutilated, a few of the smaller

uprooted. Foe's laboratory lay to the left, and we were about to

take this bend when a tall man came striding across to us from the

right; a short way ahead of two others, one round and pursy and of

clerical aspect, the other an official in the Silversmiths' uniform.

The tall man I guessed at once to be the Principal, returning from a

survey of the damage done: and I waited while he approached. He wore

an angry frown, and his eyes interrogated us pretty sharply.

"Sir Elkin Travers?" I asked.

"At your service, sir, if you are sent to help in this business?"

Sir Elkin's eyes passed on this question to the Police Sergeant and

reverted to me. "From Whitehall?" he asked.

"No, sir," I answered. "My name is Otway--Sir Roderick Otway; and

our only excuse for being here is that two of us are close friends of

Professor Foe. Indeed, sir, for myself, let me say that I have for

many years been his closest friend, and I am anxious about him."

"You have need to be, I fear," said Sir Elkin, speaking slowly.

"I was going back to him at this moment. Will you come with

me. . . . This, by the way, is Mr. Michelmore, our College Bursar."

"With your leave, gentleman," put in the Sergeant, "I'll be going

back now. They've collared most of the ringleaders; but by the sound

of it they're beating the shrubberies for the stray birds . . ."

"Certainly, Sergeant--certainly. . . . Your men have been most

prompt." Sir Elkin dismissed him, and again bent his attention on

us. "You are all friends of the Professor's?" he asked.

"Two of us," said I. "This third is Mr. Farrell, who has come to

express his sincere regret."

The Principal's eyes, which had been softening, hardened again

suddenly with anger and suspicion. What must that ass Farrell do but

hold out his hand effusively? "Pleased to make your acquaintance,

Sir Elkin," he began. "Assure you--innocent--slightest intention--

quite without my approval--outrage--deplorable--last thing in the

world--"

He stammered, wagging a hand at vacancy; for the hand it reached to

grasp had swiftly withdrawn itself behind Sir Elkin's back, and

remained there.

"We will discuss your innocence later on, sir. Be very sure you will

be given occasion to establish it, if you can." Sir Elkin's glare,

under his iron-grey eyebrows, promised No Quarter. "Since you have

pushed your way in with these gentlemen, it may interest you to

follow us and see the results of your ignorant incitement."

He shook Farrell off--as it were--with a hunching movement of the

shoulder, and turned to me.

"Come, sir," he said, courteously enough. "I warn you it is a

tragedy."

"But my friend is unhurt?" I asked anxiously. "The Sergeant told

me--"

"Doctor Foe had left the building--whether fortunately or

unfortunately you shall judge--half an hour before the mob

arrived. Saturday is, for lecturing, a _dies non_ with him, though

he often spends the whole day here at his work." Sir Elkin paused.

"By the way, did I catch your name aright, just now? You are Sir

Roderick Otway? . . . Then I ought to have thanked you, before this.

It was you who sent me a message yesterday. Foe himself made light

of it--"

"I wish I had come with him," said I, with something like a groan.

"I wish to Heaven you had," he agreed very seriously. "For I have a

confession to make. . . . I was a fool. I contented myself with

warning a few of the teaching staff to be on their guard, and with

setting an extra round of night-watchers. But I neglected to see to

it that Foe removed his papers to the College strong-room. I did

suggest it; but when he pointed out that it would involve an

afternoon's work at least, and went on to grumble that it would

probably cost him a month to re-sort them--that he hated all meddling

with his records--"

"My God!" I cried. "You don't tell me his records--eight years'

close work, as I know--"

"Eight years," repeated the Principal in grave echo as my words

failed. "Eight years' work: that would have cost a few hours to

secure--a week, perhaps, to rearrange; and in twenty minutes or so--"

He broke off. "You see that smoke?" he asked. "Over there by the

two tall Wellingtonias? . . . There, sir, goes up the last trace of

those eight years of our friend's devotion. Patience amounting to

genius, loyalty to truth for truth's sake so absolute that one

careless moment is dishonour, records calculated to a hair, tested,

retested, worked over, brooded over--there's what in twenty minutes

your Hun and your Goth can make of it in this world!"

"But, sir," I broke in, "books and packed paper don't burn in that

way! Foe's Regent-Park notes alone ran to thirty-two letter-cases

when I saw them last. He brought home two bullock-trunks from

Uganda, stuffed solid--"

Sir Elkin wheeled about sharply. "Mr. Farrell," said he, "you had a

letter in yesterday's _Times_."

"If it had crossed my mind, Sir Elkin," pleaded Farrell with a

wagging movement of his whole body, propitiatory, such as dogs make

when they see the whip. "I do assure you--"

"I seem to recollect," interrupted Sir Elkin, "your saying that

considerable sums of public money were spent on our laboratories.

The grant allocated to this College for research was so munificent

that, after building a physiological laboratory with a small

lecture-theatre, we had to house the professor himself in a

match-boarded room covered with corrugated iron. Between them"--

he turned to me in swift explanation--"they made a furnace. . . .

Yes, Mr. Farrell, and you asked why, if all is well inside my

laboratories, I should fear the light. You would insist on knowing

what you were paying for. . . . Well, here is the answer, sir--if it

meet your demand."

In the clearing where Jack's laboratory stood surrounded by turf and

a ring of conifers, a dozen firemen were busy coiling and packing

lengths of hose. The fire had been beaten; its last gasp was out;

and the main building stood, smoke-stained, water-stained, with

gaping sockets for windows, but with its roof apparently intact.

The trees were scorched to leeward, and the turf was a trampled

morass. Charred benches and desks, broken bottles, retorts, and

glass cases, bestrewed it. But of Jack's sanctum--of the room in

which I had been allowed to sit while he worked, because, as he put

it, "I made no noise with my pipe"--nothing remained save a mound of

ashes and a few sheets of iron roofing, buckled and contorted.

A thin wisp of smoke coiled up from the ruin.

"Jack!" I called.

"Let's try the theatre," Sir Elkin suggested. "I left him there."

We went in.

The rostrum Jack used for his lectures was low, flat-topped and

semicircular, with a high raised desk in the middle. Being isolated,

it had escaped the fire; as maybe it had proved too cumbrous for

removal.

Anyhow, there it was; and Jack stood beside it busy with something he

was laying out on the flat desk-top. It looked like some sort of

jigsaw puzzle that he was piecing together very carefully, very--

what's the word?--meticulously. He had a small heap of oddments on

his left, and a silk handkerchief in his right hand. His game was,

he picked out an oddment from the heap, polished it, fitted it more

or less into the silly puzzle, and stepped back to eye it. He looked

up, annoyed-like, as if we were breaking in on a delicate experiment.

"Drop that, Foe!" Sir Elkin commanded, sharp and harsh, but with a

human tremble in his voice. His nails clawed into my arm. "It's his

dog," he whispered me, "or what's left. The poor brute held the

door, they say . . . sprang at their throats right and left . . .

till someone brained him and they threw his carcass into the

fire. . . . Drop it, Foe--that's a good fellow!"

Jack stayed himself, stared at us dully, and put down the

handkerchief after dusting the bench with it.

"Is that you, you fellows?" he asked, with a smile playing about his

mouth and twisting it. "Good of you, Roddy--though almost too late

for the fun! Jimmy, too? . . . They've made a bit of a mess here,

eh? . . . Ah, and there's Mr. Farrell! Will somebody introduce Mr.

Farrell? . . . Good-morning, sir! We'll--we'll talk this little

matter over--you and I--later."