Unwillingly enough, I set out with our guest to consult my Uncle Theodore. Assuredly it was a scheme in which common sense, in the general acceptation of that elusive quality, had no part. Yet, however preposterous the proceeding, it was an act of common humanity to take even an extravagant measure for the relief of such an acute suffering. It was impossible not to pity the unhappy creature. Her eyes were wild and her appearance had been transformed into that of a hunted animal.

On the way up to town we were fortunate enough to secure a carriage to ourselves. Throughout the journey my companion hardly addressed a word to me, but she continued to betray many tokens of mental anguish. The train was punctual, and by a few minutes after four o'clock we were in Bryanston Square.

It is only once in a lustrum that I visit my Uncle Theodore. He is rich, a bachelor, and in the family is regarded as an incorrigible crank. The champion of lost causes, a poet, a radical, a practitioner of the occult, a scorner of convention, and a robust hater of many things, including all that relates to the merely expedient, the utilitarian and the material, he is looked upon as a dangerous heretic who might be more esteemed if he belonged to a less eminently responsible clan.

Howbeit, I confess that I never visit my Uncle Theodore without feeling constrained to pay a kind of involuntary homage to his personality. He has a way with him; there is a something about him which is the absolute negation of the commonplace. He is tall and extraordinarily frail, with a picturesque mop of orange-coloured hair, and a pair of large round eyes of remarkable luminosity, which seem like twin moons of liquid light.

It was our good fortune to find this bravo at home and in receipt of my telegram. I left my companion in another room while I went forth and bearded the lion in his den. Dressed in a velvet jacket, a red tie and a pair of beaded Oriental slippers he was in the act of composition, and was writing very slowly with a feathered quill upon a sheet of unruled foolscap.

"I am writing a letter to the time-serving rag that disgraces us," he said with a kind of languid vehemence, "and the time-serving rag won't print it, but I shall keep a copy and publish it in a pamphlet at the price of three-pence."

"Then put me down for four copies," said I. "You know I always regard you as one of the few living masters of the King's English."

"The King's English! The King, my boy, has no English. He has less English than the average self-respecting costermonger."

"The well of English undefiled, then."

"That is better. You are perfectly right. It is my firm conviction that my prose is quite equal to my poetry, and yet these dunces persist in saying that we poets can't write prose. Swinburne couldn't, it's true, and with tears in my eyes I used to beseech him to give up trying. But he was an obstinate little fellow. Milton couldn't, either. But Goethe now, Goethe could write prose as well as I can myself, and so could Wordsworth if he had liked, and so could Shelley. As for that yokel from Stratford-on-Avon, if there is anybody who dares to say he couldn't write prose, I should like to have the pleasure of contradicting him."

"I think," said I, "you will be among the prose-writers after your death. If I survive you, I shall hope to prepare a collected edition of the letters you have had rejected by the newspapers."

"That's a bargain, my boy. I will select them for you. It will be a nice little legacy to leave to posterity. A hundred years hence they will speak of me as the British Lucian who opened the stinking casements of a putrid age and let in God's honest sunlight. What a time we live in, and what a poisonous crew inhabits it! Why, do you know, my boy, we have less real freedom in this country than they have in Illyria."

The totally unexpected mention of the blessed word Illyria startled me considerably. That sinister kingdom was evidently in the air.

"You are right, Theodore," said I. "'The stinking casements of a putrid age' – that is a phrase I shall remember when next I am at the point of asphyxiation upon the green benches of the Mother of Parliaments."

"What a football-kicking, boat-tugging, gymnasium-bred crew they must be to stand such an atmosphere day after day, night after night! I shouldn't have thought that a really polite man could have existed in it for three days. I wonder what Edmund Burke thinks of the place when he enters it now."

A rough working knowledge of the subject with which I had to cope rendered it imperative that I should make a determined effort to lay hold of his head before he took charge of me altogether.

"Theodore," said I, "I am not here to yield to the delight of your conversation, much as I yearn to do so. I have brought a lady with me who desires to consult you about the stars."

He seemed to laugh a deep, hollow laugh out of the depths of himself, much as an ogre might be expected to do.

"Vain superstition!" he guffawed, as he stretched out his long tenuous hands. "O ye upper-middle-class British Pharisees, that ye should condescend! Who is this weak vessel that would consult the stars? Not, I trow and trust, a daughter of the late Sir John Stubberfield, Bart.?"

"The late Sir John Stubberfield, Bart." was a symbol erected permanently in his mind, with which he toyed when he was moved to exercise his fancy at the expense of his countrymen.

"Not a daughter of Sir John," I assured him. "An even more potent personage."

"Impossible, my boy! A veritable daughter of Sir John stands at the apex of human endeavour. She is the crown of social, political and philosophical beatitude. Do you forget that it was a daughter of Sir John Stubberfield, Bart., who married a Prosser? Do you forget it was a daughter of Sir John Stubberfield, Bart., who had issue an heir male, a little Prosser?"

"Peace, peace, my good Theodore. You have a bare half-hour in which to read the stars in their courses for a fair unknown. And I beg that you will treat her tenderly, for she is a brave woman and an unhappy."

"Aha!" The Ogre – the name he was known by in the family – sighed a romantic sympathy. It may seem out of harmony with the terms in which I have endeavoured to render the personality of this Berserk, but he had an almost Quixotic development of the sense of chivalry. Nothing so greatly delighted this champion of lost causes as to succour those who were in distress.

"Produce the languishing vestal, so that the arts of the necromancer may sustain her. But stay, my boy; before we go further, may I suggest that you conform to the conventional practice of confiding the name she goes by among men?"

"Certainly. Her name is Mrs. Nevil Fitzwaren."

"Aha!" The Ogre swung half round in his writing-chair to confront me. He seemed like a satyr, and the twin moons that were his eyes began to magnetise me with their uncanny effulgence. "A woman about thirty, of foreign extraction?"

"Ye – es."

"Married an English squire about five years ago?"

"How the deuce do you know that?" said I, in amazement.

Again the look of the satyr seemed to transfigure him.

"What, pray, is the use of being a soothsayer without one is permitted to dabble a little in the black arts?"

"Theodore, my friend," said I, with a somewhat disconcerted laugh, "I am inclined to think you must be the Devil."

"Perchance, my dear boy, perchance." The Ogre placed the tips of his fingers together in a way he had. "May it interest you to know that the Devil is a more potent figure in the public life of our little day than our German friends allow for. Never despise the Devil, and never mention him lightly in any company, for he is always looking at you."

The twin moons were enfolding me with a refulgence that in the dim January twilight was so uncanny that, had I been other than of a fairly robust materialistic texture, I might have felt a kind of horror.

"It is very interesting that your friend Mrs. Fitzwaren – black hair, olive complexion, remarkable appearance, a type you can't place – should come to me like this. The fact is, my dear boy, things are not always what they seem. Judging by the recent behaviour of one or two rather important planetary bodies, and of the new body of which our observant French friends have lately learned to take cognisance, the visit of your friend Mrs. Nevil Fitzwaren to your cracked Uncle Theodore at his local habitation in Bryanston Square may have some kind of a bearing on the destiny of nations. How say you?"

"My dear Theodore," I expostulated, from motives of policy, "my dear Theodore, you really are, 'pon my word you really are – !"

All the same, it was with a singular complexity of emotion that I went forth to lead this prophet and soothsayer into the presence of the Crown Princess of Illyria.

It struck me as I preceded my carpet-slippered relation into the great bare room that the unhappy lady was looking more distinguished and more distraught than-ever. Had I had a merely superficial acquaintance with our family Berserk I must have had qualms as to the mode of his reception of his visitor. In uncongenial company he could be a positive Boeotian savage, but, again, if it pleased him, he could display an ease and a sympathetic charm of bearing which was wholly delightful to those who had the good fortune to call it forth.

As he came shambling in with his flaming tie, his mop of orange-coloured hair, his hands in his pockets and his heels half out of his slippers, would it please him to be the polished and gracious courtier, or the wild Boeotian savage?

His visitor rose to receive him and a grave bow was exchanged. And for the first time in my knowledge of her Mrs. Fitz seemed at a loss for speech. Small wonder was it, for this gaunt, lean presence with the faun-like smile and the still, full, luminous gaze, seemed to hold the key to realms of infinite mystery and power.

"If you will come to my room, we can talk," he said, quite gently.

As he was about to lead the way, he half turned and leered at me ogre-like over his shoulder with his peculiarly significant malice.

"Tell Peacock to give you the Sporting Times and a cigar and a whisky-and-soda, my dear boy," he said.

"Thanks," said I, "but I am afraid you cannot be allowed more than twenty minutes for your interview. It is imperative that Mrs. Fitzwaren should catch the 5.28 from the Grand Central."

"The 5.28 from the Grand Central." He repeated the words as though an importance was attached to them that they had no reason to claim. Then he added musingly, "I am not so clear as I should like to be that you will be wise to catch it. It would be better, I think, if Mrs. Fitzwaren could arrange to travel to-morrow."

"Impossible, my dear Theodore. Mrs. Fitzwaren is staying with us, and we must certainly be back to dinner."

The Princess nodded her concurrence.

"Well, well, if you really must. And perhaps I exceed my prerogative."

The singular creature proceeded to lead the way to his study. I was left to meditate alone for twenty minutes upon this latest expression of his personality. Never before had I realised so fully that he was the possessor of gifts the nature of which was as a sealed book to the common mortal. There had been occasions when we "in the family" had been tempted to believe that there was a strong infusion of the charlatan in his pretension to occult knowledge. A prophet is not without honour save in his own country.

But as I sat this January evening in his house in Bryanston Square, I realised more fully than I had ever done before that the last word has yet to be uttered in regard to the things around us. It was as though all at once my cranky relation in his carpet slippers, his velvet coat and his red tie had brought me into a more intimate contact with the Unseen.

Somehow, and for no specific reason that I was able to discover, my unruly nerves began to tick like a clock. The temperature of the room was not high, but a perspiration broke out all over me. A full five minutes I sat in the silence of the gathering darkness not quite knowing what to do and not caring particularly. It was as though the enervating atmosphere of my uncle's nearness had taken from me the power of volition.

It never occurred to me to ring the bell, and yet I had merely to press the button at my elbow. Nevertheless, when a servant entered with a lamp it was a real relief.

"Hullo, Peacock!" said I, issuing with a little shiver from my reverie.

Somehow it seemed that that retainer, trusted, elderly, responsible, looked singularly pale and meagre in the lamp-light.

"Are you very well, Peacock?"

"Thank you, sir, not very." The old servant sighed heavily.

"Why, what's the matter?"

The old fellow proceeded to draw the curtains and then turned to face me with a kind of nervous defiance.

"Fact is, Mr. Odo," he said, "this place is getting too much for me. I am afraid I shan't be able to go on much longer. Fact is, Mr. Odo" – the old man lowered his voice to a whisper of painful solemnity – "it is contrary to the will of God."

"What is contrary to the will of God?"

"The goings on, sir, of Mr. Theodore. My private opinion is – and I say to you, Mr. Odo, what I wouldn't say to another" – the voice of the old fellow grew lower and lower – "that Mr. Theodore is getting to know a bit more than any man ought to: in fact, sir, more than the Almighty intended any man should."

"What do you mean, Peacock? You are not growing superstitious in your old age, are you?"

I strove to speak in a light tone. But in my own ears my voice sounded curiously high and thin.

"I mean this, sir. The line ought to be drawn somewhere. And Mr. Theodore doesn't know where to draw it. The people he has here, sir – it's – well, it's appalling! Clairvoyants, mediums, mahatmas, Indian fakirs, table-turners, spirit-rappers, and I can't say what. Communion with spirits is all very well, sir, but it is contrary to the will of God. The Almighty never intended, sir, that we should pry into all the secrets of existence."

"How do you know that, Peacock?"

"I know by this, sir." The old fellow tapped the centre of his forehead solemnly. "The thing that lies behind this."

To my surprise the old servant wrung his hands and burst into tears.

"It can't go on, sir – at least, as far as I am concerned. Either Mr. Theodore will have to mend his ways or I shall have to leave him. I have been a long time with Mr. Theodore, and of course I was with his father before him, and I daresay I am getting old, but do you know what we have got in the attic, sir?"

"What have you got in the attic, Peacock?"

"An Egyptian mummy, sir. It is several thousand years old, and I am convinced that a curse is on it. I wouldn't enter that attic, sir, not me, not for all the wealth of the Rothschilds."

"I was not aware that you were superstitious, Peacock," said I, with a very ineffectual assumption of the formal tone of the married man, the father of the family, and the county member.

"It is not superstition, sir, but I know what I know. That mummy has got to leave this house, or I shall leave it."

"Is that the fiat of the True Believer?"

"I don't fear God the less, sir, because I fear an Egyptian mummy, if that is what you mean."

"But you are inclined to think there are more things in earth and heaven than it is well for the average man to be concerned with?"

"I am convinced of that, sir; and if Mr. Theodore doesn't get rid of that mummy and amend his goings on, I shall be compelled to give notice."

Stated baldly, the old fellow's words may seem ridiculous. But as he uttered them his distress was so sincere that it was impossible to deny him a meed of sympathy.

"Quite right, if you do, Peacock," I agreed. "And you can lay it to that honest conscience of which you are rightly proud that you have served the family long and faithfully, and that no one will question your right to an annuity."

"Oh, that will be all right, sir," said the old retainer; "even if Mr. Theodore does act contrary to the will of God, nobody can deny that he is a perfect gentleman."

"Is not that rather a confirmation of the ancient, theory that the Devil was the first perfect gentleman?"

"I have not thought of that before, sir, but now you mention it, it is certainly worth thinking about."

Having lent sanction to this profound truth, the old fellow went out of the room. But I recalled him from the threshold.

"By the way, Peacock, Mr. Theodore told me to ask for the Sporting Times, a cigar and a whisky-and-soda."

"Very good, sir." The old fellow withdrew.

"And thank God for them!" I muttered devoutly to the bare walls.

CHAPTER XXIII
PROVIDES AN ILLUSTRATION OF THE THEORY THAT THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM

When the old man returned with this sustenance for the material state, I was moved to inquire how it was that such an intellectual rawhead and bloodybones as this too-assiduous diver into the sunless sea of the occult should subscribe to a journal of such a texture and complexion.

"Is it, Peacock, do you suppose, that, like Francis the first Lord Verulam, he would take all knowledge for his province?"

"He goes racing, sir," said Peacock, not without a suggestion of pride. "And, what is more, sir, he wins so much money that none of the bookmakers will have anything to do with him these days if they can help it. Why, do you know, sir, he has given me the name of the winner of the Derby three years running a whole fortnight before the race."

"Did you reconcile it with your conscience, Peacock, to back the horse?"

"Not the first time, sir, because, you see, I was hardly convinced it would win. It was a new fad with him then. But when I found it did win, and he gave me the tip the next year, it seemed to be flying in the face of providence, as it were, to throw away the chance, so I had on a sovereign and won nine pounds ten."

"And the third time, Peacock?"

"The third time, sir, I made it five and I won forty. And if I can stand his goings on, sir, until next Epsom week, and he gives me the tip again, I intend to put on all my savings."

I had scarcely the heart to ask the old fellow what his conscience had to say in the matter. Doubtless it was one of those organisms that only responded to the call of the higher metaphysics. It was a patrician conscience, no doubt, which only concerned itself with the ultimate.

Anyhow, before I could gratify my curiosity on this point, the re-emergence of my Uncle Theodore saved his retainer from an inquiry. A glance at my watch convinced me that we had not a moment to lose if we were to catch the 5.28 from the Grand Central station.

Uncle Theodore took an almost paternal leave of his visitor. He conducted her to the taxicab which awaited us; and in a voice of gentleness, of winning deference, he bade her God-speed. When she offered him her hand, as it seemed almost timidly, he pressed it to his lips.

"Fear nothing," I heard him say under his breath softly, and I thought the unhappy lady smiled wanly with her great gaunt eyes.

As I was about to enter the cab, Theodore placed his hand on my shoulder.

"Look after her, my dear boy." His voice had the fervour of a benediction.

My companion appeared to have shed much of her distraction in the course of her interview with the weird inhabitant of Bryanston Square. The sovereignty of the soul seemed once more in her keeping. No longer did she convey the impression of one passing through an insupportable mental crisis. Whatever fate had in store for her, it was as though she had strength to endure it.

It was in the nature of a race against time to the Grand Central station. I had promised the driver of our taxi a substantial guerdon if he caught the train. Undoubtedly he did his best, but fate decreed that he was not to earn it. An anxious study of my watch revealed the issue to be still in the balance; but just as it began to seem that we were gaining a little on the clock, there came a sharp report, followed by an almost simultaneous crash of glass, and then a confused succession of happenings.

Our vehicle stopped abruptly; a brief interval of nothingness seemed to intervene; and the next thing of which I was cognisant was that the lights had gone out and that a man with a pale face and a straw-coloured moustache was looking in at us through the window.

"Hope you are not hurt, sir." The voice sounded remote, but I could detect its note of anxiety. "Is the lady all right?"

Somewhat dazed, almost as if I were passing through a dream, I heard the voice of my companion speaking with calmness and reassurance. Then I heard the voice of the man again:

"I am afraid your Royal Highness will have to go on in another taxi."

And then the door opened, and I got out unsteadily and found myself in the midst of much traffic and a press of people. I then grew conscious that some of these had a way with them, and that they were directing things with a sort of calm officiousness.

My dazed senses welcomed the helmet of a policeman.

"Call a taxi, please," said I, addressing him in a voice that somehow did not seem to belong to me. "Must catch the 5.28 Grand Central, whatever happens. Will give you my card."

As I spoke I turned to help my companion out of the vehicle, and in the act nearly measured my length on the kerb. Strong and sympathetic hands seemed to come about me, and again the voice of the man with the straw-coloured moustache sounded in my ear, decisive but kindly and respectful.

"There is a doctor across the road, sir. Can you walk, sir? Lean your weight on me."

"5.28 Grand Central," was my incoherent, almost involuntary rejoinder. "The Princess."

"Yes, yes, sir," said the voice of my friend in need breaking in again on my senses. "The Princess will be all right with us."

Almost as if by magic a passage was made for us through the whirlpool of traffic. We seemed to be in the middle of a street that appeared quite familiar, and policemen and extremely efficient persons in dark overcoats seemed to abound.

"The Princess," I continued to mutter vaguely at intervals.

"I am with you," said a low and calm voice at my side.

She was helping my unknown friend to support me across the road. By some subtle means her nearness seemed to brace and stimulate my faculties.

"I fear we shall not catch the 5.28, ma'am," I said.

"What does it matter?" The tone of her voice seemed to give me strength and capacity.

A few yards away, down a side street, was the house of a doctor. It seemed but a very little while before I was in a cosy, well-lighted room, with a fire burning cheerfully, and a tall, genial individual with a red head and a Scotch accent was talking to me and holding me by the arm.

"Pray sit down, madam," I heard him say in his pleasant brogue. "I hope you are none the worse for your accident?"

"Not at all, t'ank you," replied my companion in a cordial tone; and then the man who had taken charge of me was heard to say to a colleague who had followed us into the house, "Perhaps the Doctor will allow you to use his telephone, Mr. Johnson. Ring up the Superintendent and then go and see what Inspector Mottrom is doing."

The Doctor gave me a bottle to sniff, and then for the first time I realised that I had an intolerable stinging in the arm. I glanced at it and saw that the sleeve of my coat was soaked with blood.

"If you will come into the surgery," said the Doctor, following the direction of my glance, "we will have a look at it. A breakage of glass, apparently."

"Yes," said my friend in need, who was evidently a Scotland Yard inspector, answering for me promptly, "the cab was pretty well smashed up." Then he added in an undertone for my private ear, "Don't mention the shots, sir. I am going to telephone to the railway people to arrange for a special train as soon as you are ready to go on. I think it will be safer, and two of our inspectors will accompany the train."

"Thank you very much indeed," I said, gratefully.

Never until that moment had I fully realised the organised efficiency of the Metropolitan Police.

As soon as I entered the surgery I came perilously near to a fall on the carpet, somewhat to my disgust, for I appeared to have sustained no injury beyond the damage to my arm. Further recourse, however, to the smelling-bottle defeated this temporary weakness.

After traversing the injured member with light and deft fingers, the Doctor procured a bowl of warm water, a sponge and a pair of scissors. He cut away the sleeve of the overcoat, then of the coat and the shirt, revealing a state of things at which I had no wish to look. After the application of an antiseptic in warm water he was able to give an opinion.

"I am afraid," he said, "this is not the work of glass." He worked over the quivering flesh with a finger. "A bullet has been at work here. It has glanced along the lower arm apparently, but it does not appear to have lodged in it. An incised wound. There may be a fracture. Can you move your arm in this way?"

With this request I was able somewhat painfully to comply.

"That is good," said the Doctor. "No fracture."

It was surprising how soon and how readily the injured member yielded to the deft skill of this good Samaritan. Twenty minutes of assiduous treatment, which, however, was fraught with some pain, as it included the operation of stitching, did much not only for the damaged limb but also for its owner. By that time I seemed to have quite overcome the shock of these events; and with my arm encased in bandages and resting in a black silk handkerchief, and the good Doctor having lent me an overcoat to replace my own mutilated one, I was given a pretty stiff brandy-and-soda and pronounced fit to travel.

"It is undoubtedly the work of a bullet," said the Doctor at the end of his labours. "But I suppose it is no business of mine. If I am not mistaken, the men who brought you here are Scotland Yard detectives."

I smiled at the Doctor's perspicacity and asked him to be good enough to take a card out of my cigar-case.

"Some day, perhaps, I shall be able to explain to you what the accident really was and how it came to happen. In the meantime I cannot do more than thank you most sincerely for all that you have done for me."

There and then I took leave of this true friend, and with a sense of devout thankfulness that I was no worse off than I was, continued the journey to the Grand Central station. When at last we came to that well-known terminus the great clock over the entrance was pointing to five minutes past six.

Our arrival there seemed an event of some importance, to judge by the demeanour of a number of people who appeared to take an interest in it. Indeed, so much respectful attention did it excite that it seemed to be rather in the nature of an anti-climax to have to pay our Jehu.

As soon as we had entered the booking-hall no less a personage than the station-master, frock-coated and gold-laced, came up to us and took off his hat.

"Train ready to start, sir, as soon as her Royal Highness desires. Platform No. 5. This way, sir, if you will kindly follow me."

We passed along to Platform No. 5, engaging as we did so the good-humoured interest of the British Public. Here a special saloon was awaiting us, also a carriage for the accommodation of our friends from Scotland Yard. By a quarter past six we had started on our journey.

My companion had borne all our vicissitudes en route from Bryanston Square with the greatest fortitude and composure. It was no new experience for her chequered life to be exposed to the bullets of the assassin. This latest effort of the King's enemies she appeared to regard with stoical indifference. Even in the shock of the calamity itself she did not lose her self-possession. And through all our tribulations her attitude of maternal solicitude was charmingly sincere.

As I came to regard her from the opposite corner in our special saloon, it was clear that a great change had been wrought in her by the visit to the magician of Bryanston Square. It was a change wholly for the better. In lieu of the overwrought intensity which had been so painful for her friends to notice, was that calm and assured outlook upon the world of men and things which had ever been her predominant characteristic in so far as we had known her.

"Irene will scold me dreadfully," she said, "for bringing you home like this."

"Surely it is the reverse of the case, ma'am. Instead of me looking after you, I really don't know what I should have done without your help."

"My poor Odo, you won't be able to hunt for a month at least."

"Perhaps it is for the best. I shall have more time to think about the dragon of socialism which is threatening to devour us all."

"Even here you have that disease" – there was a half-humorous lift of the royal eyebrow – "even in this quaint place. Why, it is a disease that is spreading all over the world. If only the dear people would understand that it was never intended that they should think for themselves; that it is so much wiser, so much less expensive, so much more profitable in every way that they should have those who are used to policy to think for them! How can Jacques Bonhomme, dear, good, ignorant, stupid fellow, know what is good for him, what is good for his country, what is good for Europe, what is good for the whole world!"

"The trouble, ma'am, as far as this island is concerned, is that our Jacques is becoming such a shrewd, sensible personage, who is learning to go about with his eyes uncommonly wide open."

"Ants and bees and dogs and horses, my good Odo, are shrewd and sensible enough, but Jacques must learn to keep his place. Everything is good in its degree, but I cannot believe that a watchmaker is fitted to wind up the clock of state any more than a common soldier is fitted to win the day of Rodova."

"Ah, the day of Rodova! I wonder if we shall find the Victor waiting for us when we get back to Dympsfield House."

I thought a faint cloud passed over the brows of my companion.

"Mais, oui," she said in a soft, low tone. "I wonder. And old Schalk. He is such a character. You will die when you see Schalk."