Kitabı oku: «Cleek of Scotland Yard: Detective Stories», sayfa 21

“Yes, sir?”

“You might explain to the constable on duty in the neighbourhood – if he comes to inquire, that is – the cause of the disturbance, and that Scotland Yard is in charge and Superintendent Narkom already on the premises. That’s all, thank you. You may close the door and take your colleagues below. Hullo! our prisoner seems to be subsiding into something akin to gibbering idiocy, Mr. Trent. Fright has turned his brain, apparently. Let us make use of the respite from his shrieks. You will, of course, wish to hear how I got on the track of the man, and what were the clues which led up to the solving of the affair. Well, you shall. Sit down, and while we are waiting for the darkness to come I’ll give you the complete explanation.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Colliver, who had now sunk into a state of babbling incoherence, lay on his face in the wreck of the tableau, rolling his head from side to side and clasping and unclasping his manacled hands.

Trent turned his back upon the unpleasant sight and, placing three chairs at the opposite end of the room, dropped into one and lifted an eager countenance to Cleek.

“Tell me first of all,” he asked, “how under heaven you came to suspect how the disappearance of the boy was managed? It seems like magic, to me. When in the world did you get the first clue to it, Mr. Cleek?”

“Never until I heard of those two women looking into this room and seeing the vase of pink roses standing on a spindle-legged table in the centre of it,” he replied. “You see, even in the old days when I had the other case in hand and was searching for a clue to Colliver’s disappearance, never had any one mentioned the name of Loti to me. I knew, of course, that you made wax figures here, but I never heard until this afternoon that Loti was the man who was employed to model them. I also knew about the existence of the glass-room and its position, for I had been at the pains of inspecting it from the outside. That came about in this way: Just before Miss Larue closed up the case of James Colliver I had obtained the first actual clue to his movements after he left Mr. Trent, senior, and came out of the office.

“That clue came from the door porter, Felix Murchison. What careful ‘pumping’ got out of him was that when James Colliver left the office he had asked him, Murchison, which was the way to the place where they made the waxworks, as he’d heard that they were making a head of Miss Larue to be used in the execution scene of Catharine Howard, and he’d like to have a look at it. Murchison said that he told him the figures were made in a glass-room on the top of the house, and directed him how to reach it. He went up the stairs, and that was the last that was seen of him.

“Naturally when I heard that I thought I’d like to see the exterior of the building to ascertain if there was any opening, door or window, by which he could have left the upper floor without coming down the main staircase. That led me to beg permission of the people in the house across the passage there to look from one of the side windows, and so gave me my first view of the glass-room. What I saw was exactly what Mrs. Sherman and her daughter saw yesterday – namely, that spick and span room with the table in the centre and the vase of pink roses standing on it.

“Need I go further than to say that when I heard of those women seeing a room that was badly littered a few minutes before suddenly become a tidy one with a table and a vase of roses standing in the middle of it, without anybody having come into the place for the purpose of making the change, I instantly remembered my own experience and suspected a painted blind?

“When I entered this room to-day and saw the peculiar position of that blind I became almost certain I had hit upon the truth, and sent Mr. Narkom to the house across the way to test it. That’s why I pulled the blind down. Why I stumbled and nearly fell into the tableau was because I had a faint suspicion of the horrible truth when I noticed how abominably thick the neck, hands, and ankles of that ‘dead soldier’ were; and I wanted to test the truth or falseness of the ‘straw stuffing’ assertion by actual touch, particularly as I felt sure that the presence of all these strongly scented flowers was for the purpose of covering less agreeable odours should the heat of the weather cause decomposition to set in before he could dispose of the body. I don’t think he ever was mad enough to intend letting the thing remain a part of the tableau. I fancy he would have found an excuse to get it out somehow and to make away with it entirely, as, no doubt, he did with the body of Loti.

“What’s that, Mr. Narkom? No, I don’t think that Murchison had any actual hand in the crime or really knew the identity of the man. I fancy he must have gone up to tell the fictitious Loti that he knew James Colliver had entered that glass-room and never come out of it, and Colliver, of course, had to shut his mouth by buying him off and sending him out of the country. That is why he took yet another disguise and pawned the jewels. He had to get the money some way. As for the rest, I imagine that when Colliver went up to the room to see that wax head, and Loti caught sight of him, the old Italian jumped on him like a mad tiger; and, seeing that it was Loti’s life or his own, Colliver throttled him. When that was done, the necessity for disposing of the body arose, and the imposture was the actual outcome of a desire to save his own neck. That’s all, I think, Mr. Narkom; so you may revise your ‘notes’ and mark down the Colliver case as ‘solved’ at last and the mystery of it cleared up after all.”

Three hours of patient waiting had passed and gone. The darkness had fallen, the streets were still, save for the faint hum of life coming from districts afar, and the time for action had come at last. Cleek rose and put on his hat.

“I think we may safely venture to remove our prisoner now, Mr. Narkom,” he said, “and if you will slip out the back way and get Lennard to bring the limousine around to the head of that narrow alley – ”

“They’re there already, dear chap. I stationed Lennard there when I went across to look into that business about the painted blind. It seemed the least conspicuous place for him to wait.”

“Excellent! Then, if you will run on ahead and have the door of it open for me and everything ready so that we may whisk him in and be off like a shot, and Mr. Trent will let one of these good chaps here run down to the man’s room and fetch him a hat, I’ll attend to his removal.”

“Here’s one here, sir, that’ll do at a pinch and save time,” suggested one of the men, picking up a cavalryman’s hat from the wreck of the ruined tableau and dusting it by slapping it against his thigh. “I don’t think he’ll resist much, sir; he seems to have gone clear off his biscuit and not to know enough for that; but if you’d like me and my mate to lend a hand – ”

“No, thanks; I shall be able to manage him myself, I fancy,” said Cleek, serenely. “Get him on his feet, please. That’s the business! Now then, Mr. Narkom nip off; I’m following.”

Mr. Narkom “nipped off” without an instant’s delay, and two minutes later saw him slipping out through the rear door of the building with Cleek and the jabbering, unresisting prisoner at the bottom of the last flight of stairs not twenty yards behind.

But the passage of the next half minute saw something of more moment still; for, as Narkom ran on tiptoe up the dim alley to the waiting limousine standing at its western end, and unlatching the vehicle’s door, swung it open to be ready for Cleek, out of the stillness there roared suddenly the shrill note of a dog-whistle, and all in a moment there was – mischief.

A crowd of quick-moving Apache figures sprang up from sheltering doors and, scudding past him, headed full tilt down the narrow alley, calling out as they ran that piercing “La, la, loi!” which is the war cry of their kind.

A blind rage – all the more maddening in that it was impotent, since he had neither weapon to defend nor the power to slay – swept down upon the superintendent as he realized the import of that mad rush, and, ducking down his head, he bolted after them, into the thick of them – punching, banging, slogging, shouting, swearing – an incarnate Passion, the Epitome of Man’s love for Man – a little fat Fury that was all a whirl of flying fists as it swept onward and that seemed to go absolutely insane at what he looked up the alley and saw.

“Get back, Cleek! Get back, for God’s sake!” he yelled, in a very panic of fear and dismay; then cleft his way with beating arms and kicking feet through the hampering crowd, arrowed out of its midst, and bore down upon the cavalry-hatted figure that had stepped out of the dark doorway of Trent & Son’s building and was standing flattened against the rear wall of it.

He reached out his hand and made a blind clutch at it, and, while he was yet far out of reaching distance of it, faced round and made a wild effort to cover it with his short, fat body and his arms outflung, like a crucifix, and looked at the Apaches and swore without one thought of being profane.

“Me, you damned devils! Me, me, not him! Not him, damn you! damn you! damn you!” he cried, hoarse-throated and – said no more!

The scuttling crowd came up with him, broke about him, swept past him. A loud explosion sounded; a flare of light broke full against the cavalry hat; a stifling odour of picric acid filled the air and gripped the throat, and with its coming, man and hat slid down the wall and dropped at its foot a crumpled heap that never in this world would stand erect again.

“Killed! Killed!” half-cried, half-groaned the superintendent, staggering a bit as the crowd flew on up the alley and vanished around the corner of the street into which it merged. “Oh, my God! After all my care; after all my love for him! Killed like a dog. Oh, Cleek! Oh, Cleek! The dearest friend – the finest pal – the greatest detective genius of the age!” And then, swinging his arm up and across his eyes and holding it there, made a queer choking sound behind the sheltering crook of it.

But of a sudden a voice spoke up from the darkness of the open door near by and said quietly:

“That’s the finest compliment I ever had paid me in all my life, Mr. Narkom. Don’t worry over me, dear friend; I’m still able to sit up and take nourishment. The Apaches have saved the public executioner a morning’s work. Colliver has parted with his brains forever; and may God have mercy on his soul!”

“Cleek!” Mr. Narkom scarcely knew his own voice, such a screaming thing it was. “Cleek, dear chap, is it you?”

“To be sure. Come inside here if you doubt it. Come quickly; there’s a crowd of quite a different sort coming: the report of that bomb has aroused the neighbourhood; and I have quite enough of crowds for one evening, thank you.”

Narkom was inside the building before you could have said Jack Robinson, “pump-handling” Cleek with all his might and generally deporting himself like a man gone daft.

“I thought they’d finished you! I thought they’d ‘done you in.’ It was the Apache, you know – and that infernal scoundrel Waldemar: he must have found out somehow,” he said excitedly. “But we’ve got it on him at last, Cleek: he’s come within the law’s reach after all.”

“To be sure; but I doubt if the law will be able to find him, Mr. Narkom. He will have left the country before the trap was actually sprung, believe me; or failing that, will be well on his way out of it.”

“But perhaps not absolutely out of it, dear chap. There are the ports, you know; and so long as he is on English soil – Come and see! Come and see! We may be able to head him off. Let’s get out by way of the front of the building, Cleek, and if I can once get to the telegraph and wire to the coast – and he hasn’t yet sailed – Come on! come on! Or no: wait a moment. That’s a constable out there, asking for information. I’ll nip out and let him know that the Yard’s on the case and give him a few orders about reporting it. Wait for me at the front door, old chap. With you in a winking.”

He stepped out into the alley as he spoke and mingled with the gathering crowd.

But Cleek did not stir. The alley was no longer dark for, with the gathering of the crowd, lights had come and he stood for many minutes staring into it and breathing hard and the colour draining slowly out of his face until it was like a thing of wax.

Outside in the narrow alley the gathering of curious ones which the sound of the explosion and the sight of a running policeman had drawn to the place was every moment thickening, and with the latest addition to it there had come hurrying into the narrow space a morbid-minded newsboy with the customary bulletin sheet pinned over his chest.

“The Evening News! Six o’clock edition!” that bulletin was headed, and under that heading there was set forth in big black type:

END OF THE MAURAVANIAN REVOLUTION

FALL OF THE CAPITAL

FLIGHT OF THE DEPOSED KING

OVERWHELMING SUCCESS OF IRMA’S TROOPS

“Mr. Narkom,” said Cleek, when at the end of ten minutes the superintendent came bustling back, hot and eager to begin the effort to head off Count Waldemar. “Mr. Narkom, dear friend, the days of trouble and distress are over and the good old times you have so often sighed for have come back. Look at that newsboy’s bulletin. Waldemar is too late in all things and – we have seen the last of him forever.”

EPILOGUE
The Affair of the Man Who Was Found

Mr. Maverick Narkom glanced up at the calendar hanging on the office wall, saw that it recorded the date as August 18th, and then glanced back to the sheet of memoranda lying on his desk, and forthwith began to scratch his bald spot perplexedly.

“I wonder if I dare do it?” he queried of himself in the unspoken words of thought. “It seems such a pity when the beggar’s wedding day is so blessed near – and a man wants his last week of single blessedness all to himself, by James – if he can get it! Still, it’s a case after his own heart; the reward’s big and would be a nice little nest egg to begin married life upon. Besides, he’s had a fairly good rest as it is, when I come to think of it. Nothing much to do since the time when that Mauravanian business came to an end. I fancy he rather looked to have something come out of that in the beginning from the frequent inquiries he made regarding what that johnnie Count Irma and the new Parliament were doing; but it never did. And now, after all that rest – and this a case of so much importance – Gad! I believe I’ll risk it. He can’t do any more then decline. Yes, by James! I will.”

His indecision once conquered, he took the plunge instantly; caught up the desk telephone, called for a number, and two minutes later was talking to Cleek, thus:

“I say, old chap, don’t snap my head off for suggesting such a thing at such a time, but I’ve a most extraordinary case on hand and I hope to heaven that you will help me out with it. What’s that? Oh, come, now, that’s ripping of you, old chap, and I’m as pleased as Punch. What? Oh, get along with you! No more than you’d do for me under the same circumstances, I’ll be sworn. Yes, to-day – as early as possible. Right you are. Then could you manage to meet me in the bar parlour of a little inn called the French Horn, out Shere way, in Surrey, about four o’clock? Could, eh? Good man! Oh, by the way, come prepared to meet a lady of title, old chap – she’s the client. Thanks very much. Good-bye.”

Then he hung up the receiver, rang for Lennard, and set about preparing for the journey forthwith.

And this, if you please, was how it came to pass that when Mr. Maverick Narkom turned up at the French Horn that afternoon he found a saddle horse tethered to a post outside, and Cleek, looking very much like one of the regular habitués of Rotten Row who had taken it into his mind to canter out into the country for a change, standing in the bar parlour window and looking out with appreciative eyes upon the broad stretch of green downs that billowed away to meet the distant hills.

“My dear chap, how on earth do you manage it?” said the superintendent, eying him with open approval, not to say admiration. “I don’t mean the mere putting on the clothes and looking the part – I’ve seen dozens in my time who could do that right enough, but the beggars always ‘fell down’ when it came to the acting and the talking, while you – I don’t know what the dickens it is nor how you manage to get it, but there’s a certain something or other in your bearing, your manner, your look, when you tackle this sort of thing that I always believed a man had to be born to and couldn’t possibly acquire in any other way.”

“There you are wrong, my dear friend. It is possible, as you see. That is what makes the difference between the mere actor and the real artiste,” replied Cleek, with an air of conceited self-appreciation which was either a clever illusion or an exhibition of great weakness. “If one man might not do these things better than another man, we should have no Irvings to illuminate the stage, and acting would drop at once from its place among the arts to the undignified level of a tawdry trade. And now, as our American cousins say, ‘Let’s come down to brass tacks.’ What’s the case and who’s the lady?”

“The widow of the late Sir George Essington, and grandmother of the young gentleman in whose interest you are to be consulted.”

“Grandmother, eh? Then the lady is no longer young?”

“Not as years go, although, to look at her, you would hardly suspect that she is a day over five-and-thirty. The Gentleman with the Hour Glass has dealt very, very lightly with her. Where he has failed to be considerate, however, the ladies, who conduct certain ‘parlours’ in Bond Street, have come to the rescue in fine style.”

“Oh, she is that kind of woman, is she?” said Cleek with a pitch of the shoulders. “I have no patience with the breed! As if there was anything more charming than a dear, wrinkly old grandmother who bears her years gracefully and fusses over her children’s children like an old hen with a brood of downy chicks. But a grandmother who goes in for wrinkle eradicators, cream of lilies, skin-tighteners, milk of roses, and things of that kind – faugh! It has been my experience, Mr. Narkom, that when a woman has any real cause for worrying over the condition of her face, she usually has a just one to be anxious over that of her soul. So this old lady is one of the ‘face painters,’ is she?”

“My dear chap, let me correct an error: a grandmother her ladyship may be, but she is decidedly not an old one. I believe she was only a mere girl when she married her late husband. At any rate, she certainly can’t be a day over forty-five at the present moment. A frivolous and a recklessly extravagant woman she undoubtedly is – indeed, her extravagances helped as much as anything to bring her husband into the bankruptcy court before he died – but beyond that I don’t think there’s anything particularly wrong with her ‘soul.’”

“Possibly not. There’s always an exception to every rule,” said Cleek. “Her ladyship may be the shining exception to this unpleasant one of the ‘face painters.’ Let us hope so. English, is she?”

“Oh, yes – that is, her father was English and she herself was born in Buckinghamshire. Her mother, however, was an Italian, a lineal descendant of a once great and powerful Roman family named de Catanei.”

“Which,” supplemented Cleek, with one of his curious one-sided smiles, “through an ante-papal union between Pope Alexander VI and the beautiful Giovanna de Catanei – otherwise Vanozza – gave to the world those two arch-poisoners and devils of iniquity, Cæsar and Lucretia Borgia. Lady Essington’s family tree supplies a mixture which is certainly unique: a fine, fruity English pie with a rotten apple in it. Hum-m-m! if her ladyship has inherited any of the beauty of her famous ancestress – for in 1490, when she flourished, Giovanna de Catanei was said to be the most beautiful woman in the world – she should be something good to look upon.”

“She is,” replied Narkom. “You’ll find her, when she comes, one of the handsomest and most charming women you ever met.”

“Ah, then she has inherited some of the attractions and accomplishments of her famous forbears. I wonder if there has also come down to her, as well, the formula of those remarkable secret poisons for which Lucretia Borgia and her brother Cæsar were so widely famed. They were marvellous things, those Borgia decoctions – marvellous and abominable.”

“Horrible!” agreed Narkom, a curious shadow of unrest coming over him at this subject rising at this particular time.

“Modern chemistry has, I believe, been quite unable to duplicate them. There is, for instance, that appalling thing the aqua tofana, the very fumes of which caused instant death.”

“Aqua tofana was not a Bornean poison, my friend,” said Cleek, with a smile. “It was discovered more than two hundred years after their time – in 1668, to be exact – by one Jean Baptiste de Gaudin, Signeur de St. Croix, the paramour and accomplice of that unnatural French fiend, Marie Marquise de Brinvilliers. Its discoverer himself died through dropping the glass mask from his face and inhaling the fumes while he was preparing the hellish mixture. The secret of its manufacture did not, however, die with him. Many chemists can, to-day, reproduce it. Indeed, I, myself, could give you the formula were it required.”

“You? Gad, man! what don’t you know? In heaven’s name, Cleek, what caused you to dip into all these unholy things?”

“The same impulse which causes a drowning man to grip at a straw, Mr. Narkom – the desire for self-preservation. Remember what I was in those other days, and with whom I associated. Believe me, the statement that there is honour among thieves is a pleasant fiction and nothing more; for once a man sets out to be a professional thief, he and honour are no longer on speaking terms. I never could be wholly sure, with that lot; and my biggest coups were always a source of danger to me after they had been successfully completed. It became necessary for me to study all poisons, all secret arts of destruction, that I might guard against them and might know the proper antidote. As for the rest – Sh! Mumm’s a fine wine. Here comes the landlady with the tea. We’ll drop the ‘case’ until afterward.”

“Now tell me,” said Cleek, after the landlady had gone and they were again in sole possession of the room, “what is it this Lady Essington wants of me? And what sort of a chap is this grandson in whose interest she is acting? Is he with her in this appeal to the Yard?”

“Certainly not, my dear fellow. Why, he’s little more than a baby – not over three at the most. Ever hear anybody speak of the ‘Golden Boy,’ old chap?”

“What! The baby Earl of Strathmere? The little chap who inherited a title and a million through the drowning of his parents in the wreck of the yacht Mystery?”

“That’s the little gentleman: the Right Honourable Cedric Eustace George Carruthers, twenty-seventh Earl Strathmere, variously known as the ‘Millionaire Baby’ and the ‘Golden Boy.’ His mother was Lady Essington’s only daughter. She was only eighteen when she married Strathmere: only twenty-two when she and her husband were drowned, a little over a year ago.”

“Early enough to go out of the world, that – poor girl!” said Cleek, sympathetically. “And to leave that little shaver all alone – robbed at one blow of both father and mother. Hard lines, my friend, hard lines! It is fair to suppose, is it not, that, with the death of his parents, the care and guidance of his little lordship fell to the lot of his grandmother, Lady Essington?”

“No, it did not,” replied Narkom. “One might have supposed that it would, seeing that there was no paternal grandmother, but – well, the fact of the matter is, Cleek, that the late Lord Strathmere did not altogether approve of his mother-in-law’s method of living (he was essentially a quiet, home-loving man and had little patience with frivolity of any sort), and it occasioned no surprise among those who knew him when it was discovered that he had made a will leaving everything he possessed to his little son and expressly stipulating that the care and upbringing of the boy were to be entrusted to his younger brother, the Honourable Felix Camour Paul Carruthers, who was to enjoy the revenue from the estate until the child attained his majority.”

“I see! I see!” said Cleek, appreciatively. “Then that did her extravagant ladyship out of a pretty large and steady income for a matter of seventeen or eighteen years. Humm-m! Wise man – always, of course, provided that he didn’t save the boy from the frying-pan only to drop him into the fire. What kind of a man is this brother – this Honourable Felix Carruthers – into whose hands he entrusted the future of his little son? I seem to have a hazy recollection of hearing that name, somewhere or somehow, in connection with some other affair. Wise choice, was it, Mr. Narkom?”

“Couldn’t have been better, to my thinking. I know the Honourable Felix quite well: a steady-going, upright, honourable young fellow (he isn’t over two or three-and-thirty), who, being a second son, naturally inherited his mother’s fortune, and that being considerable, he really did not need the income from his little nephew’s in the slightest degree. However, he undertook the charge willingly, for he is much attached to the boy; and he and his wife – to whom he was but recently married, by the way – entered into residence at his late brother’s splendid property, Boskydell Priory, just over on the other side of those hills – you can see from the window, there – where they are at present entertaining a large house party, among whom are Lady Essington and her son Claude.”

“Oho! Then her ladyship has a son, has she? The daughter who died was not her only child?”

“No. The son was born about a year after the daughter. A nice lad – bright, clever, engaging; fond of all sorts of dumb animals – birds, monkeys, white mice – all manner of such things – and as tender-hearted as a girl. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Carruthers is immensely fond of him and has him at the Priory whenever he can. That, of course, means having the mother, too, which is a bit of a trial, in a way, for I don’t believe that her ladyship and Mrs. Carruthers care very much for each other. But that’s another story. Now, then, let’s see – where was I? Oh, ah! about the house party at the Priory and Carruthers’ fondness for the boy. You can judge of my surprise, my dear Cleek, when last night’s post brought me a private letter from Lady Essington asking me to meet her here at this inn – which, by the way, belongs to the Strathmere estate and is run by a former servant at the Priory – and stating that she wished me to bring one of the shrewdest and cleverest of my detectives, as she was quite convinced there was an underhand scheme afoot to injure his little lordship – in short, she had every reason to believe that somebody was secretly attacking the life of the Golden Boy. She then went on to give me details of a most extraordinary and bewildering nature.”

“Indeed? What were those details, Mr. Narkom?”

“Let her tell you for herself – here she is!” replied the superintendent, as a veiled and cloaked figure moved hurriedly past the window; and he and Cleek had barely more than pushed back their chairs and risen when that figure entered the room.

A sweep of her hand carried back her veil; and Cleek, looking round, saw what he considered one of the handsomest women he had ever beheld: a good woman, too, for all her frivolous life and her dark ancestry, if clear, straight-looking eyes could be taken as a proof, which he knew that they could not; for he had seen men and women in his day, as crafty as the fox and as dangerous as the serpent, who could look you straight in the eyes and never flinch; while others – as true as steel and as clean-lifed as saints – would send shifting glances flicking all round the room and could no more fix those glances on the face of the person to whom they were talking than they could take unto themselves wings and fly.

But good or ill, whichever the future might prove this lovely lady to be, one thing about her was certain: she was violently agitated, and nervousness was making her shake perceptibly and breathe hard, like a spent runner.

“It is good of you to come, Mr. Narkom,” she said, moving forward with a grace which no amount of excitement could dispel or diminish – the innate grace of the woman born to her station and schooled by Mother Nature’s guiding hand. “I had hoped that I might steal away and come here to meet you unsuspected. But, secretly as I wrote, carefully as I planned this thing, I have every reason to believe that my efforts are suspected and that I have, indeed, been followed. So, then, this interview must be a very hurried one, and you must not be surprised if it becomes necessary for me to run off without a moment’s notice; for believe me, I am quite, quite sure that the Honourable Mr. Felix Carruthers is already following me.”

“The Honourable – my dear Lady Essington, you don’t mean to suggest that he – he of all men – God bless my soul!”

“Oh, it may well amaze you, Mr. Narkom. It well-nigh stupefied me when I first began to suspect. Indeed, I can’t do any more than suspect even yet. Perhaps it is he, perhaps that abominable woman he has married. You must decide that when you have heard. I perceive” – glancing over at Cleek – “you have been unable to bring a detective police officer to listen to what I have to say, but if you and your friend will listen carefully and convey the story to one in due course – ”

“Pardon, your ladyship, but my companion is a detective officer,” interposed Narkom. “So if you will state the case at once he will be able to advise.”

“A detective? You?” She flashed round on Cleek and looked at him in amazement, her lower lip indrawn, a look almost of horror in her eyes. One may not tell a lion that another lion is a jackass, though he masquerade in the skin of one. Birth spoke to Birth. She saw, she knew, she understood. “By what process could such as you – ” she began; then stopped and made a slight inclination of the head. “Pardon,” she continued; “that was rude. Your private affairs are of course your own, Mr. – er – ”