"Now, how greedy you are. Well then, here it is. On that fatidic night
in July, this fellow was fifty-five."
"What of it?"
"Everything. At his age Alexander had been dead twenty years."
As Jones spoke he raised his hands. "Spirit of the Great Sinner, forgive
me! This scrofulous dwarf has no kinship with thee!"
"No," Jones, dropping his hands, resumed. "None. His kin are Herod,
Caracalla, Attila, Genghis Khan, and Cloacus, Lord of Sewers. Those are
his kin. To the shade of the Lampsacene, whom the world had forgotten;
to that of Cloacus, whom civilisation had ignored, subsequently he
devoted the army. For the troops he invoked them. But that night the
ghosts of the others gave him pause. At his age, Caracalla, Attila,
Genghis, were dead. They had died hideous, monstrous--but young. Herod
alone may have seemed a promising saint to swear by, though, in the
obscurities of Syrian chronology, even of him he could not be sure. The
one kindred hyena who, at fifty-five, had defied the world was Tsi An,
the Chinese Empress, and he had helped to squelch her. Do you see it
now? To burglarise the world, this thug had every advantage. The police
were asleep. The coast was clear. The jimmies and the dynamite sticks
were ready. Even the dark lantern was packed. The kit was complete. He
had everything. He lacked nothing, except the one essential--Youth! The
eyes of youth are clear. His were too dimmed to foresee that the
allies----"
Lennox was rising.
Amiably Jones switched on and off again. "Hold on a minute. You have not
given me the "Who's Who" of that young woman."
In Lennox' brain, instantly cells latent, alert, and of which he was
entirely unconscious, functioned actively. Before him Cassy stood.
Beside her was another. This other, very lovely, was a saint. Yet,
prompted still by the cells and equally unaware of it, it occurred to
him that a lovely saint may resemble a vase that is exquisite, but
unresilient and perhaps even empty. Whereas a siren, like Cassy----
Abruptly he caught himself up. The unawaited disloyalty into which he
had floundered, surprised and annoyed him. He could not account for the
delicate infidelity and perplexedly he looked at Jones who still was at
it.
"The diva I mean. The diva in duodecimo who sang at the Bazaar."
Lennox shook himself and sat down again. Modestly then the thrice-told
tale was repeated--Angelo Cara, a violin in one hand, a sword-cane in
the other, trudging home. The attack, the rout, the rescue, the
acquaintance with Cassy that ensued.
Jones, absorbing the story, pigeonholed his memory with the details
which, sometime, for copy purposes, might be of use.
"They are Portuguese," Lennox, rising again, concluded.
Jones peered about. The great room was filled with members, eating,
drinking, laughing, talking--talking mainly of nothing whatever. He
motioned. "Isn't that Cantillon over there with--of all
people!--Dunwoodie?"
Lennox looked and nodded. "Cantillon is in Dunwoodie's office. He asked
me to give him my law business." Indifferently, with the air of one
considering the improbable, Lennox added: "Some day I may. Good-night."
But in the night into which he then went, already that day was breaking.