Chapter VI: Book II: The Chase (1)

NIGHT THE EIGHTH.

VENDETTA.

"My dear Roddy,--Don't come around: and for God's sake don't send
Jimmy. The word is 'No sympathy, by request.' You will
understand.

"I shall call on you at 9 o'clock on Tuesday. Have breakfast
ready, for I shall be hungry as a hunter.

"Don't fash yourself, either, with fears that I am 'unhinged' by
this business. I am just off to Paddington--thence for the
Thames--shan't say where: but it's a backwater, where I propose
to think things out. I shall have thought them out, quite
definitely, by Tuesday.

"I believe you keep a few bottles of the audit ale. Tell Jephson
to open one for a stirrup-cup. You can invite Jimmy.--
Yours truly,
J.F.

"P.S.--I don't know, and can't guess, how you came to tumble in
so promptly on the heels of that riot. But you have always been
a cherub sitting up aloft and keeping watch over--
Poor Jack.

"P.P.S.--This by Special Messenger. . . . Forgive my breaking
away and leaving you all so impolitely. Nothing would do, just
then, but to escape and be alone.--
Until Tuesday."

A boy-messenger brought this missive at 5.30. I read it over in a hurry, and took cheer: read it over a second time, sentence by sentence, and liked it less. It left no doubt, anyhow, that to search for Jack on the reaches of the river would be idle, as to find him would be mean. So there was nothing to do but wait.

That week-end, as it happened, brought a false promise of spring, with a hard east wind and a clear sky.

Punctually at nine o'clock on Tuesday he arrived, clean and hale and positively bronzed. The old preoccupation of over-work rested no longer upon him. We had made ready with grilled sole, omelette, bacon and a cold game-pie. He ate like a cavalryman, talking all the while of his adventures. It appeared that he had chosen the "Leather Bottle" at Clifton Hampden for headquarters, and had spent a part of Sunday discussing Christian Science with an atheistical bagman. He said not a word of Saturday's happenings--talked away, in fact, as if he had returned to us, on perfect terms of understanding, out of a void. Jimmy played up and mulled some beer for us afterwards, on a recipe of which (he gave us to know) the College of Brasenose, Oxford, alone possessed the secret, to be imparted only to such of its sons as had deserved it by godliness and good learning.

Foe commended the brew, declined a cigar, and pulled out his old pipe.

"Infernal job," he began, "having to talk business, 'specially when you've tasted freedom."

He filled his pipe, lit it carefully, and went on. "I got back to London early yesterday morning. Spent the day clearing up my worldly affairs. . . . Don't look scared, Roddy. I've thrown up the Professorship--that's all."

"Why, in the world?" I wanted to know.

"You may put it," he answered easily, "that, as the clerics say, I've had a higher call."

"Don't understand," said I; "unless you're telling us that Travers--"

"Travers?" His eyebrows went up. "Oh, I see what you mean. No: Travers hasn't been running around and finding me a better-paid job as a solatium. He's a good fellow and quite capable of it. Even hinted at something of the sort when I broke it to him verbally, yesterday afternoon. I thanked him, but wasn't taking any. I get quite as much money as I want at the Silversmiths'; and I've saved a little, too. It's freedom, not money, I want; as a means to my little end. I want complete freedom for a couple of years, perhaps for three, or maybe even for longer. It may be I shall have to buy myself an annuity. I'd ask for absolute independence if it could be had--independence of all my fellow-creatures but one. But it can't be had: so I've come to you for help."

"Say on," I commanded.

"It's this way, Roddy. Like the late General Trochu, I have a Plan. Unlike his, it's a Great Plan. . . . Yes, I'll give you a glimpse of it by and by. It involves--or may involve--the cutting of all human ties--that is of all but one. Well, as you know, I haven't many, and those clients of Farrell's have lightened me of worldly furniture. What's become of Farrell, by the way?"

"He's retiring from the contest, and has been advised to travel for the good of his health. The Sunday papers settled it with their reports of the Police Court proceedings. . . . What! Haven't you heard?"

"Now I come to think of it, Travers tried to tell me some story . . . but I wasn't listening. . . . In trouble, is he? Good. Not going to hang him, are they? Good."

"The actual decision," said I, "was taken at the Whips' Office yesterday morning. Farrell goes. There's just time to put up a working-man candidate in his stead. But the seat's lost."

"Good," repeated Jack tranquilly. "Eh? . . . Oh, I beg your pardon, Roddy: I was looking at it from--well, from a different angle. . . . Let's get back to my plan. Wasn't it Huck Finn who wished it were possible to die temporarily? That's what I'm going to do, anyhow: and I want you to be my executor."

"I should need an inventory of your worldly goods, to start with," said I gravely.

"Drew it up, Sunday night. . . . Where's my coat? . . . here, catch!" He pulled out a long legal envelope, well stuffed, and threw it across to me. "Don't open it now. When you do, you'll find everything in order. I've a habit of neatness with my worldly affairs."

"All very well," said I. "But you'll have to tell a lot more before I commit myself. And, anyhow, things can't be done in this easy way. You'll have to see a solicitor and get me power of attorney or something of the sort--"

"Look here," he interrupted; "I thought it was understood that I'd come to you for _help_. Power of attorney? Bosh! Not going to commit yourself? Why, man, you're committed! The cheque's drawn and paid into your account at Hoare's. . . . I did it yesterday--caught 'em just before closing-time. You'll be hearing in a post or so. They have all the bonds too, and my written instructions. . . . I bank there, too, you know."

"Heaven alive!" said I, with a gasp. "Are you telling me you've chucked all you possess into my account?"

"Why not?" he demanded. "Oh, you can make me out an I O U some time, and get Jimmy to witness it, if you're so damned--what's the word?-- punctilious. If you can't do me this simple favour, why then you must sign the business over to Jimmy here."

"No, you don't," answered Jimmy, and in accents commendably clear considering that he uttered them with his nose deep in the tankard of mulled ale. "Up to now I have played the good boy who is seen but not heard. I break the self-imposed silence only to say: 'Woe betide the man who attempts to complicate my overdraft!'"

I addressed myself to Jack. "You'll be wanting money sent to you from time to time, and I'm to transmit.--Is that the idea?"

He nodded.

"Where am I to send it?"

"That's the uncertainty, of course. From time to time I shall keep you informed. It may be to a suburban villa, it may be to some _Poste Restante_ in the Sahara. That's as the chase goes. Like Baal I shall be on a journey, or I shall be pursuing. Yes, anyway I shall be pursuing. . . . All I ask is that, on getting a call, you'll send out, as best you can, such-and-such a sum to the address indicated. You have between 6000 and 7000 pounds sterling to play with. Probably you will be surprised at my moderation in demanding: but anyway I shall keep well within the limit. My memory and the bank-book usually balance to a pound or two."

"Then it's travel you're after?" I asked.

He nodded. "On a journey--_and_ pursuing."

"Big game?"

"You may call it the biggest. Or I'm out to make it the biggest. . . . Jimmy, pass me the tobacco." He took the jar and, filling his pipe, lay back in the wicker chair with something like a groan. "Roddy, can't you _see_? These years, as you know, I've been working up my inquiry into rage in animals; beginning, that is, with animals, but always, as you know, intending to carry the inquiry up as soon as I had a solid working basis. Yes, it was all to proceed on induction--laborious tests, classifications--you know the system and that I didn't care if it took a lifetime. Well, all of a sudden, as I'm beginning to realise that, though the process is sound--must be sound--pursuit is probably hopeless because it must take twenty lifetimes--of a sudden, I say, this new way is revealed. Put it that I've come, all of a start, upon a little stream called Rubicon. Put it that I've burnt--no, put it that Farrell's myrmidons have burnt, at a stroke, every boat for me.

"--I might have gone on for years upon years, collecting statistics and ploughing out conclusions. . . . I begin to believe in the calculated interposition of Providence. . . . On the critical moment of transference the bridge breaks behind me. I have lost all my baggage. But, on the other shore, I have the jewel.

"--Listen, my boy. . . . The end of me may be empiricism. . . . They have destroyed eight years' work, and I have nothing left of it but memories of data which I can't produce for evidence--worthless, that is, for a man of my scientific conscience. _En revanche_ and on the other side of the stream I find I have _it_; to carry on and test upon a fellow-man I have the diamond to cut all glass. With the brute beasts it was all observation, much of it uncertain. Henceforth it will be clean experiment. Farrell accused me of practising vivisection. As a matter of fact, I never did. Now I'm going to, and on Farrell."

Jimmy arose on pretence of seeking a match, and leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece while he stared into the fire.

"Oh, I say, Professor!" he blurted out. "Farrell, you know! He's no sort of class. He--he deserves punishing, but he don't mean any harm, if you understand." Here Jimmy faced about with an ingenuous smile. "I'm a bit of a fool myself, you see, and must speak up for my order."

"But you speak up too late, my boy," answered Foe. "What's the use of telling me that Farrell is no class? As if I didn't know _that_! . . . Why, man, I didn't _choose_ Farrell, to pay my attentions to him. If the gods had paid me the compliment of sending along the late Mr. Gladstone, or the present Archbishop of Canterbury (whoever he may be), or General Booth (if he's alive), to knock out eight years of my life like so many skittles in an alley, I'd have felt flattered, of course. But they didn't: they sent along Farrell, and I bow my head before a higher wisdom which, you'll allow, has been justified of its child. Could the late Mr. Gladstone--since we've instanced him--have done it more expeditiously, more thoroughly, with a neater turn of the wrist? . . . No. Very well, then! Better men than I have married their cooks and been content to recognise that it just happened so. You can start apologising for Farrell when I start complaining he's inadequate."

Jack's eyes, during this speech, were for Jimmy, of course, and I had used the opportunity to watch his face pretty narrowly. It was a little more than ordinarily pale, but composed, as his tone was light and his manner of speech almost flippant. I wondered. . . .

"Jimmy meant," said I, "that _you're_ too good to match yourself against Farrell. The harm he's done you is atrocious--I can hardly look you in the face, Jack, and speak about it. . . . All the same, Jimmy talks sense: an outsider like Farrell isn't worthy of your steel, as the writers say."

"We'll wait till he has felt it." Jack stood up, pushed his hands into his trouser-pockets, took one turn around the room, returned, and came to a halt on the hearth-rug. "There's another point," said he. "You fellows can never get it out of your heads that your thoroughbred is always, and necessarily, more sensitive than your mongrel. _It must be so_--you don't trouble about evidence: it's fixed in your minds _a priori_: which means that you're just as unscientific and at least as far from the truth as I should be if I posited the exact opposite . . . As a matter of fact, some miss in the breeding will usually carry with it an irritable protective nerve and keep the animal sensitive on points which the thoroughbred ignores. Your cripple thinks of his hip, your hunchback of his spine: your well-formed man takes his hip and spine for granted. Your bastard is sensitive on historical fact and predisposed to lying about it. . . . Stated thus, my counter-proposition is obvious. You won't be so ready to agree when I go on to assure you that sensitiveness in these mongrels and misfits often spreads from the centre over the whole nervous system.--But, anyway, you knew my poor hound, the pair of you. Not much breeding in Billy, eh? . . . Well, he bit four blackguards before they laid him out: bit 'em deep, too, and I won't answer for the virus. That dog died defending my papers. He fought on his honour, and he knew it, Roddy. He suffered, Jimmy--even if he was dead when they threw him into the fire. And--I'm going to give your Farrell the benefit of the doubt. . . . Where's the tobacco?"

I passed him the jar. "We'll allow for the moment that you are right, Jack," said I. "At all events, you've made out a case. But where do I come in? What's the part you propose for me in this show? Pull yourself together and admit that I'm asking a sweetly reasonable question."

"Didn't I explain?" Jack answered testily. "Surely I made it clear? All I ask of you is to post me out from time to time the money I ask for travelling expenses. . . . That doesn't compromise you, eh? . . . Damn it all, Roddy," he exploded, "I counted you were my friend to that extent!"

"That's all right, Jack," said I. "But a friend is one thing and an accomplice is another. What's your game with Farrell? You haven't told me yet, though you're asking what gives me the right to know."

He picked up his coat and hat and turned on me with a smile, very faint and weary and a trifle absent-minded.

"To tell you the truth," said he, as if searching for something at the back of his mind, "I haven't thought it out quite accurately. It's near enough to warrant what preparations I'm making: but it hasn't the shape of a clean proposition--which is the shape my conscience demands. . . . Don't hurry me, Roddy: let me come around again to-morrow. . . . I can't invite you to my flat, because I'm making arrangements to shut it up, and these details get in the way, all the time. . . . Tell you what.--Meet me, you two, at Prince's Grill-room to-morrow, one-fifteen, and you shall have the plan of campaign on a half-sheet of notepaper. I'm a brute, Roddy, to bother you with these private affairs in the middle of your politics. But one-fifteen to-morrow, if you can manage. Sure? Right, then.-- So long!"

He wagged, at the door, a benediction on us with his walking-stick and went down the stairs, I strolled to the window and watched him cross the turfed square of the court. Jimmy had taken up the poker and started raking the lower bars of the grate.

"Queer how quietly the Professor takes it," began Jimmy. "I was half-afraid--Oh, drop it, Otty, old man--I'm sorry!"

We had both wheeled about together, and I held a window cushion, poised, ready to hurl.

"Of course I didn't mean that, really!" pleaded Jimmy, parrying with the poker-point. "Sit down and let's talk. Is he mad? . . . I don't like it."

NIGHT THE NINTH.

THE HUNT IS UP.

Well, I thought it over, and talked it over with Jimmy, and decided that, much as I loved Jack Foe, he'd have to be more explicit with me before I undertook this stewardship. You will say that, this being the only decent decision open, I might have done without the thinking and the talking. . . . And that's true enough. But, you see, I had lived with Jack pretty long and pretty close, and this was the first time I'd ever taken a miss with him. If anyone for the past ten or fifteen years had suggested to me, concerning Jack Foe, that a day might come when I shouldn't know where to find him, I--well, I should have lost my temper. It was inconceivable, even now. I told myself that, though he had expressly given me leave to invite Jimmy to the breakfast, he had taken a fit of reticence in Jimmy's presence and had shied off; that I should get more out of him when we were alone together. . . . Is that good English, by the way? Can two persons be alone? . . . Thank you, Polkinghorne--of course they can when they're real friends.

But that speculation wouldn't work, either: for again at Prince's, and again at Jack's invitation, we were to be a party of three. . . . I tell you of these doubts because through them, and (you may say) by way of them, it came to me--my first inkling that something was wrong with the man.

Anyway, as it turned out, Jimmy and I might have spared ourselves the discussion: for when we reached Prince's the head-waiter (an old friend) brought me a letter. It had been delivered by District Messenger almost two hours before. It ran--Here it is: I have all the documents but one, and I've sent home for that.

"Dear Roddy,--Sorry to do a shirk: but circumstances oblige me to
take the boat-train, 9.45, ex Victoria. I have locked up the
flat. The porter has the keys, with instructions to lend to
nobody but you or the landlord.

"Address, for some little while, quite uncertain. I drew out a
fair sum in circular notes and cash; enough to keep me solvent
for some weeks. So you need not worry about the money.

"You needn't fash your consciences over the Plan, either.
I'll tell you about it in my next, written from the first place
when I find leisure. I'll unfold--no, the word insults its
beautiful simplicity. Apologies to Jimmy. Tell him to buy a
copy-book and write in it _Experiment is better than
Observation_.

"So long! A great peace has fallen on me, Roddy. 'I am one with
my kind,' like the convalescent gentleman in _Maud_. 'I embrace
the purpose of--whatever Higher Power set Farrell going--'and
the doom assigned.'

"Farrell is going strong. Yoicks!--Yours ever,"
"J.F."

I handed the letter across to Jimmy, and set myself to order, thoughtfully, something to eat.

"Well, what do you say to it?" I asked as Jimmy finished his perusal.

"I say," pronounced Jimmy in unfaltering voice, "that the crisis demands a gin-and-vermouth, at once, and that the vermouth should be of the Italian variety."

"Waiter!" I called.

"Nay," said Jimmy, "hear me out. I say further--did you mention a rump-steak underdone?"

"You did," said I.

"And with oysters on the top?"

"It's where they usually go," I pleaded. "I didn't specify. One takes a lot of these little things for granted."

"Then I say further that, this being one of those occasions on which no time should be lost, you will reach for that collection of _hors d'oeuvre_ on the table behind you, and lift your voice for a bottle of Graves to follow the vermouth and quickly, but not so as to gall its kibe. . . . And I say last of all," he wound up reflectively, helping himself to two stuffed olives and a _hareng sauer_, "that the Professor is running a grave risk, and I wouldn't be in his shoes at this moment."

"You think--" I began nervously.

"Never did such a thing in my life," said Jimmy. "I _know_. He's in one of those beastly Restaurant Cars."

Silence descended on Foe for two months and more. Then I received this long letter:--

Grand Hotel, Paris,
May 27th.

"My dear Roddy,--The hunt is up. I took some time getting a move
on it: but to-night Farrell has the real spirit of the chase
upon him, and is in his room at this moment, packing
surreptitiously with intent to give me the slip.

"You will have gathered from a glance at the above address
that Farrell is with me; or rather, that I am with Farrell.
I give him full scope with his tastes. It is part of the Plan.
But to-night--knowing that he had gone to his room to pack
surreptitiously, and that his berth in the _Wagon-lit_ is booked
for to-morrow night at the Gare d'Orleans--I gave myself what
the housemaids call an evening-out. This is Paris, Roddy, in
the time of the chestnut bloom. A full moon has been performing
above the chestnuts. Beneath their boughs the municipality had
hung a thousand reflections of it in the form of Chinese
lanterns shaped and coloured like great oranges. The band at
the _Ambassadeurs_--a band of artists and, as I should judge,
conducted by somebody who couldn't forget that he had once been
a gentleman--saw the moon rise and at once were stricken with
Midsummer madness. It had been recklessly, defiantly, blatantly
exploiting its collective shame on two-steps and coon
song,--shouting its _de profundis_, each degenerate soul
bucking up its lost fellow with a challenge to go one better and
mock at its hell--when of a sudden, as I say, the moon rose, and
the conductor caught up his stick, and the whole damned crew
floated off on _The Magic Flute_. . . . It wasn't on the
programme. It just happened, and no one paid them the smallest
attention. . . . But there it was: ten minutes of ecstasy.

"They ceased upon the night: and the next news was that after
five minutes' interval they were chained again and
conscientiously throwing vim into _Boum-Poump_ with the
standardised five thumps of jollity on the kettledrum.

"So the champak odours failed--What is champak? Have the Germans
synthetised it yet?--and I awoke from dreams of thee. I walked
back by way of the Quais--by the river:"

Dissolute man!
Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can.

"But I have played for safety and am writing this with the aid of
a whisky-and-Perrier to hope that it finds you well as it leaves
me at present.

"I dare say it struck you as a poorish kind of trick--my inviting
you to Prince's and leaving you to pay for the repast.
The reason of my sudden bolt was a sudden report that Farrell
intended to start at once for a holiday on the Continent of
Europe--that he had been to Cook's and bought himself a circular
ticket for the Riviera--Paris, Toulon, Cannes, Nice, etc.--on to
Genoa, Paris by Mt. Cenis--that sort of thing. I should tell
you that, being chin-deep in winding up my affairs, I had
employed a man to watch his movements. Shadowing Farrell is a
soft option, even now, when he's painfully learning the
rudiments of flight: four months ago he had not even a nascent
terror to make him suspicious. Oh, never fear but I'll educate
him, dull as he is! Remember your _Ancient Mariner_, Roddy?
Here are two passages purposely set wide apart by the author,
that I'll put together for you to choose between 'em,--"

(1) As who, pursued with yell and blow,
Still treads the shadow of his--Foe,
And forward bends his head. . . .

(2) Like one that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

"You may urge that Coleridge--a lazy man and a forgetful--is just
repeating himself. But there's a shade of difference; and I'll
undertake to deliver back Farrell in whichever condition you
prefer; or even to split the shade. But you must give me time.

"As it was, I risked nothing in paying an ordinary professional.
Farrell walked into the office, and my man followed him.
Farrell took some time discussing his route with the clerk.
My man borrowed the use of a telephone-box, left the door open
and rang me up. By the time he was put through he had heard all
he needed. So he closed the door, and reported. I instructed
him, of course, to buy me a similar ticket. 'And,' said my man,
'he is inquiring which is the best hotel at Monte Carlo, and it
seems he hardly knows any French." 'Right,' said I. 'Come
along at once and collect your fee, for I haven't any time to
spare.'

"I thought it possible that Farrell might break his journey to
dally with the gaieties of Paris. But he didn't. I found out
easily enough at Cook's Office there that he had booked a
sleeper and gone straight through. So I went to the Opera,
listened to _Rigoletto_, idled most of the next day in the old
haunts, and took the usual Sud-Express, with a sleeper, from the
Gare de Lyons.

"No: I lie. You can't call it idling when you sit--say in the
Bois, on any chance bench anywhere--seeing nothing, letting the
carriages go by like an idle show of phenomena, but with your
whole soul thrilling to a new idea, drinking it in, pushing out
new fibres which grow as they suck in more of it through small
new ducts, with a ripple and again a choke and yet again a
gurgle, which you orchestrate into a sound of deep waters
combining as you draw them home. . . . Oh, yes--you may laugh:
but I know now what conception is: what Shakespeare felt like
when he sat one night, in a garden, and the great plot of
_Othello_ came teeming. . . .

"Please bear one thing in mind, my dear Roddy, You are never, now
or hereafter, to pity me. _Qualis artifex_. . . . I used to
smile to myself in a cocksure youthful way when great men hinted
in great books that one had to make burnt-sacrifice of the eye's
delight, the heart's desire; the lust of the flesh, the pride of
the intellect; see them all consumed to a handful of dust, and
trample out even the last spark of that, before the true phoenix
sprang; that only when half-gods go the gods arrive. But it's
true, Roddy! It's true!

"I won't grow dithyrambic--not just yet. I was so sure of my man
that it seemed quite worth while to tumble out at Avignon--a
place I had never inspected--and fool away another spell among
Roman remains, and Petrarch and the rival Popes, and the opening
scenes of the Revolution, and just thinking--thinking.

"So I reached Monte Carlo next day, a little after noon; took a
bath and a siesta; sauntered into the Casino there, a good
forty-eight hours behind time; and caught my man, sitting.

"Are you superstitious, Roddy? Of course you are: and so are all
of us who pretend that we are not. . . . Monte Carlo is the hell
of a hole. I had never seen it before: but as I went into the
Casino, all of a sudden I had a queer recollection--of a
breakfast-party at Cambridge in young La Touche's rooms, in
King's (he was killed in the South African War), and of his
saying solemnly as we lit cigarettes that he'd had a dream
overnight. He dreamed that he walked into the Casino at Monte
Carlo, went straight to the first table on the left, put down a
five-franc piece on Number 17, and came out a winner of
prodigious sums.

"Well, we are all humbugs about superstition. I don't believe
there's a man existent--that's to say, a tolerable man, a fellow
who isn't a prig--who doesn't touch posts, or count his steps on
the pavement, or choose what tie he'll wear on certain days,
or give way to some such human weakness when he's alone.
We so-called 'men of science' are, I truly believe, the worst of
the lot. You can't get rid of one fetish but you have instantly
the impulse to kneel to another . . .

"Anyhow, there was my man sitting, and the number 17 almost
straight before him, a little in front of his right arm; and
this recollection came to me; and I leaned over his shoulder and
laid a five-franc piece on the number.

"It won. I piled my winnings on the original stake, _plus_ all
my loose cash; and Number 17 won again.

"That's all. You know my old theory that every scientific man
should have a sense of mystery--it's more useful to him than to
most of his fellows. Anyway I'd tried my luck on Bob La
Touche's long bygone dream.

"Several pairs of eyes began to regard me with interest: and the
croupier, as he pushed my spoil across, spared me a glance
inscrutable but scrutinising. I make no doubt that had I helped
to make up the next game, quite a number of the punters would
have backed my infant fortune. But I didn't. Farrell had
slewed about in his chair for to look up at the newcomer: and at
sight of his dropped jaw, as he recognised me, I smiled,
gathered up my wealth and walked out.

"I took a seat in the Casino garden, overlooking the sea.
'Sort of thing,' I found myself murmuring, 'might happen once in
a blue moon,' and with that was aware that a sort of blue
moonlight was indeed bathing the garden, though the moon's
reflection lay yellow enough across the still Mediterranean.
[Here, for description, turn up Matt. Arnold's _A Southern
Night_: possibly still copyrighted.]

"Farrell came out. He spotted me at once; for to help the moon,
as well as to dispel the heavy scent of the gaming-room, I was
lighting a cigar. He took a couple of turns on the terrace and
halted in front of me. His manner was nervous.

"'Excuse me, Professor--' he began.

"'Excuse me, Mr. Farrell,' I corrected him; 'I am a Professor no
longer. You may call me Doctor Foe, if you like. . . . Did
Number 17 win a third time?'

"'I--I fancy not," he stammered. 'To tell the truth, your sudden
appearance here, when I supposed you to be in London--and at
Monte Carlo, of all places--But perhaps you are a devotee of the
fickle goddess? Men of learning,' he floundered on, 'find
relaxation--complete change of interest. Darwin--the great
Darwin--used to read novels: the worse the novel, the better he
liked it--or so I've heard.'

"'As it happens,' said I, 'this is my first visit to Monte
Carlo.'

"'Indeed?' He brightened and became yet more fatuous.
'Then we may call it a coincidence, eh?--a veritable
coincidence. When I saw you--But first of all, let me
congratulate you on your luck.'

"'Thank you,' I said. 'I will make a note that your first
impulse on encountering me was to congratulate me on my luck.'

"This seemed to puzzle him for a moment. Then, 'Oh, I see what
you mean,' he said. 'But we're coming to that. . . . You gave
me a fair turn just now, you did, turning up so unexpected.
But (says I) this makes an opportunity that I ought to have made
for myself before leaving London. Yes, I ought. . . . But I
want to say to you now, Dr. Foe--as between man and man--that I
made a mistake. I was misled--that's the long and short of it.
I never stirred up that crowd, Doctor, to make the mess they did
of your--your premises. But so far as any unguarded words of
mine may have set things going in my absence--well, I'm sorry.
A man can't say fairer than that, can he? . . . And I've
suffered for it, too,' he added; 'if that's any consolation to
you.'

"'Suffered, have you?' I asked.

"'What, haven't you heard?' He was surprised.--Yes, Roddy,
genuinely. 'Well, now I won't say it was all owing to that
little affair at the Silversmiths' College. . . . There were
other--er--circumstances. In fact there was what-you-might-call
a combination of circumstances. The upshot of which was that I
had a safe seat and took a bad toss out of it. No, I don't
harbour no feelings against you, Doctor Foe. I'm a sociable,
easy-going sort of fellow, and not above owning up to a mistake
when I've made one. . . . I stung you up again just now, wishing
you joy of your luck: meaning no more than your winnings at the
tables. Not being touchy myself, I dessay it comes easy to
advise a man not to be touchy. But what I say is, we're both
down on our luck for the time, and we're both here to forget it.
So why not be sociable?'

"'Suppose on the contrary, Mr. Farrell,' I suggested, 'that I am
here to remember. What then?'

"'Then I'd say--No, you interrupted me somewhere when I was going
to make myself clear. You won't mind what I'm going to say?
. . . Well, then, I gather those asses did some pretty
considerable damage to your scientific 'plant'--is that so?
. . . Well, again, feeling a sort of responsibility in this
business, I want to say that if it'll set things on their legs
again, five or six thousand pounds won't break Peter Farrell.'

"I didn't strangle him, Roddy. It was the perilous moment: but I
sat it out like a statue, and then I knew myself a match for
this business. I didn't strangle him, even though he provoked
me by adding, 'Yes, and now we're met, out here, you can be
useful to me in a lot of little ways. Know French, don't you?
Well, I don't, and we'll throw that in. . . . What I mean is,
What d'ye say to our joining forces? I'm fed up with these
Cook's men. They do their best, I don't deny. But this
business of the lingo is a stiffer fence than I bargained for.
Now, with a fellow-countryman to swap talk; _and_ a gentleman,
and one that can patter to the waiters and at the railway
stations--What do you say to it, Doctor? Shall we let bygones
be bygones?'

"I did not strangle him, Roddy, even for that. I sat pretty
still for a while, pretending to consider.

"'It's odd, Mr. Farrell,' said I after a bit, 'that you should
invite me to be your companion. You'll always remember that you
invited me?'

"''Course I shall,' said he. 'Let's be sociable--that's my
offer.'

"I threw away my cigar. 'Provided you make no suggestion beyond
it, I accept,' said I. 'We will take this trip together.
Do you mean to stay long at Monte Carlo?'

"'Pretty place,' said Farrell. 'Been up to La Turbie? No, of
course; you've only just arrived. Well, I can recommend it--
funny little railway takes you up, and the view from the top is
a knock-out. But I'm your man, wherever you'll do the
personally-conducting. I'm not wedded to this place. Only came
here because I understood it was fast, and I wanted to see.'

"'Where's your hotel?' I asked.

"'Grand Hotel, next door,' he answered. 'What' yours?'

"'The same,' said I. 'We'll meet at _dejeuner_--same table.
Twelve noon, if that suits.'

"'I don't know if you're wedded to this place--' said he.

"'Not one little bit,' I answered.

"'Inside there, for instance?'

"'You saw,' said I. 'I came out because I disliked the smell.'

"'And there's that pigeon-shooting. Goes on all day. I hate
taking life--even if I could--'

"'You've once before,' said I, 'suspected me of being careless
about the sufferings of animals; and you've, apologised.
Shall we call it off? I don't shoot pigeons anyway.'

"'Me either,' Farrell agreed heartily. 'I'm here for fresh air
and exercise. Don't mind confessing to you I've no great fancy
for this place. Man told me at dayjooney this morning he'd just
come in from sitting under the palms before the Casino entrance.
. . . All of a sudden a young fellow walked out and shot
himself there, point-blank. Man who told me doesn't take any
interest in play--over from Mentone for the day, just to see
things.--Well, this young fellow, as I say, shot himself--put
revolver to his forehead--there on the steps. And by George,
sir, he was mopped up and into a sack within twenty seconds!
One porter ready with sack, another to help, third with sponge
to mop steps--stage clear almost before you could rub your eyes.
. . . I just tell it to you as it was told to me, and by a man
pretty far gone in consumption, so that you'd say he'd be
cautious about lying.'

"I lit another cigar. 'With so priceless a fool as this,' I said
to myself, 'you must not be in a hurry, John Foe.' Aloud I
said, 'I've no passion either, for this place. I wanted to see
it, and I've seen it. I'll knock in at your room at eight
o'clock, if that will suit you, and we'll discuss plans. For my
part, I had a mind to go back to Cannes and start for a ramble
among the Esterel.'"

"To be brief, we struck the bargain and--incredible as you may
find it--have been running in double harness ever since. . . .
I couldn't have believed it myself, in prediction: but here it
is--_and until a few hours ago Farrell never guessed_.

"No: that is wrong. He never guessed at all. I told him.

"It came to me, after the first week, as habitually as daily
bread. We put in a couple of days at Mentone, another couple at
Nice; then for a fortnight we made Cannes our centre, with a trip
up to Grasse and several long tramps among the mountains.
After that came St. Tropez, Costebello, Toulon, Marseilles,
Montpellier--with excursions to Aigues-Mortes, the Pont du Gard
and the rest of it. From Montpellier we turned right about on
our tracks; took Cannes again, Antibes; drove along the whole
Corniche in a two-horse barouche. There was a sort of compact
that we'd do the whole Riviera--French and Italian--as thoroughly
as tourists can do it; and we did--from Montpellier to
Bordighera, from Bordighera to Genoa. And he never guessed.

"I had two bad moments; by which I mean moments of unscientific
impatience, sudden unworthy impulses to kill him and get rid of
the job. Unscientific, unworthy--unsportsmanlike--to kill your
priceless fish before he has even felt the hook!

"The second bad moment I overcame (I am proud to report) of my
own strength of will. It happened at a bend of the Corniche,
when our driver pulled up on the edge of a really nasty
precipice and invited us to admire the view. It being the hour
for _dejeuner_, we haled our basket out of the carriage, and
spread our meal on the parapet. Farrell sat perched there with
his back to the sea, and made unpleasant noises, gnawing at a
chicken-bone. I wanted to see how he'd fall backwards and watch
him strike the beach. . . .

"Well, I was glad when the impulse was conquered and I had proved
my self-control: because the previous temptation had been a
close call, and I believe it would have bowled me out but for a
special interposition of--Providence.

"We were following up a path in the Esterel: a little gorge of a
path cut by some torrent long since dried. The track had steep
sides--fifteen to twenty feet--right and left, and was so narrow
that we took it single file. I was leading.

"Now, on our way westward out of Cannes, that morning, we had
passed the golf-links, and Farrell had been talking golf ever
since. I don't know why golf-talk should have such power to
infuriate those who despise that game. But so it is, Roddy.

"I had the weapon in my pocket. I had my fingers on it as I
trudged along, and was saying to myself, 'Why not here? In the
name of common sense, why not here? Why not here and now?'--
when a leveret, that had somehow bungled its footing on the high
bank above, came tumbling down, not three yards ahead of us.
The poor little brute picked itself up, half-stunned, caught
sight of us, and made a bolt up the path ahead. From this side
to that it darted, trying to climb and escape; but again and
again the bank beat it, and from each spring it toppled back;
and we followed relentlessly.

"At the end of two hundred yards it gave in. It just lay down in
the path like a thing already dead and waited for what we should
choose to do.

"I picked it up. I showed it to Farrell, keeping my fingers on
the faint little heart.

"'They say,' said I, 'it's lucky when a hare pops out in your
path. What do you think?'

"'Worth carrying home?' said Farrell. 'I'm partial to hare.
But he's a bit undersized for Leadenhall Market'--and the fool
laughed.

"'We'll let him go,' said I.

"'I guess he's too far scared to crawl,' he suggested doubtfully.

"'Turn about and watch,' said I. 'It may have escaped your
memory that you once accused me of being cruel to animals.
Turn about, and watch. Don't move.'

"I undid the three upper buttons of my waistcoat, stowed the
little fellow down inside, against my shirt, leaving his head
free, so that I could stroke his ears and brainpan. I let
Farrell see this, stepped past him, and walked slowly back down
the path. At the end of twenty paces I lifted the little beast
out, set him on the ground, and walked on. He shook his ears
twice, then lopped after me like a dog, at a slow canter.
At the point where he had tumbled I collected him again by the
ears, lifted him, climbed the bank and restored him to his
thicket, into which he vanished with a flick of his white scut.

"Then I went back very slowly to Farrell. 'Curious things,
animals,' said I. 'If you don't mind, we won't talk any more
golf to-day.'"

NIGHT THE TENTH.

PILGRIMAGE OF HATE.

"A map scored with the zigzags of our route would suggest the
wanderings of a couple of lunatics. But that was the way of it.
I would turn up at breakfast any morning and propound some plan
for a new divagation. Farrell never failed to fall in with it.
For a time, of course, I had him in places whence, with his
ignorance of France, he might have found it hard to escape back
to his own form of civilisation. But even when he had picked up
enough of the language to ask for a railway ticket and something
to eat, his reliance on me continued to be pathetic, dog-like.

"I know something of dogs. I have no experience of marriage.
But from time to time I put this question to myself: 'Here is a
widower--free, as he tells me, after twenty-seven years of
married life almost entirely spent at Wimbledon. It is
inconceivable that he did not, during that considerable period,
look at least once or twice across the table at the late Mrs.
Farrell and ask himself if the business was to go on for ever.'
I supposed, Roddy, that the two had been in love, as such
creatures feel the emotion. 'Well then,' thought I, 'here are
we two, the one hating and hiding his hate, thrown together in
constant companionship. How long will it take the other, who
has never cut an inch of the ice encasing that hatred, before he
finds my society intolerable?'

"That was the question; and I had the answer to-day.

"From Genoa we actually harked back to Cahors, for an aimless two
weeks among the upper waters of the Lot and the Tarn. I led him
over the roof of France, as they call it. I sweated him down
valleys to Ambialet, to Roc-Amadour, I threaded him through
limestone caverns wherein I could have cut his throat and left
him, never to be missed. We struck up for the provincial
gaieties of Toulouse. We attended the Opera there--
_Il Trovatore_--and Farrell wept in his seat. I can see the
tears now--oozing out between the finger-stalls of a pair of
white-kid gloves he had been inspired to buy at the
_Bon Marche_. We also went to the theatre, where the company
performed _Les Vivacites du Capitaine Tic_.

"At the conclusion of this harmless comedy, Farrell said a really
good thing. He said it was funny enough and even instructive if
you looked at it from the right point of view; but for his part
(and I might call him advanced if I chose) he liked the sort of
musical comedy in which you spice a chicken to make 'em all fall
in love when they've eaten it; or at least, if it's to be
legitimate comedy, one in which they take off their clothes and
go to bed by mistake.

"So we came on to Paris, and here we are at the Grand Hotel.
Farrell's notion of Paris, was of course, the Moulin Rouge, and
the kind of place on Montmartre where they sing some kind of
blasphemy while a squint-eyed waiter serves you cocktails on a
coffin.

"We were solemnly giving way to this libidinous humbug last night
when he leaned back and said to me, 'This is all very well,
Doctor; and I'm glad to have had the experience. But do you
know what I want at this moment?'

"'Say on,' said I, looking up to return the nod of an
acquaintance--a young American, Caffyn by name--who had risen
from a table not far from ours and was making his way out.
On a sudden impulse I called after him, 'Hi! Caffyn!'

"'Hallo!' Caffyn turned about and came strolling back. He is a
long lantern-jawed lad with a sardonic drawl of speech. He has
spent two years in the _ville lumiere_, having come to it
moth-like from somewhere afar in Texas. His ambition--no,
wait!--the ambition of his father, a 'cattle king,' is that he
should acquire the difficult art of painting in oils.
'Want me?' asked Caffyn, as I pushed a chair for him.
'What for? If it's to admire the 'rainbow' you've been mixing,
I'm a connoisseur and I don't pass it. Your hand's steady
enough, one or two lines admirably defined, but you've gotten
the pink noyau and the _parfait amour_ into their wrong billets.
If, on the other hand, you want me to drink it, I'll see you to
hell first." . . . Then, as I introduced him, "Good evening,
Mr. Farrell. I am pleased to meet you in this meretricious
haunt of gaiety. If I may be allowed to say so, you set it off,
sir.'

"'Sit down a moment,' said I. 'We didn't intrude upon your
solitary table, thinking--'

"'I know,' he caught me up. 'Natural delicacy of Britishers--
'Here's a fellow learning to take his pleasures sadly.
We'll give him time.' And I, gentlemen, allowed that it was
'way down in Cupid's garden--Damon and Pythias discovered hand
in hand--no gooseberries, by request. . . . If you'd like to be
told how I was occupied, I was chewing--ay, marry and go to--
I was one with my distant father's most fatted calf--fed up and
chewing.'

"'And if you'd like to know how we were occupied,' said I, 'we
were both wanting something--and the same thing. We haven't
told one another what it is, and you are called in to guess.'

"'Oh, a thought-reading _seance_. Right.' He turned the chair
about, sat on it straddle-wise and crossed his arms over the
curved top bar. 'Let me see,' he mused, leaning forward,
pulling at his cigar and bringing his eyes, after they had
travelled over the crowd, back firmly to us. ''Two souls with
but a single thought,'' he quoted, ''two hearts that beat as
one.' . . . Well, now, if you were of my country and from my
parts I'd string you like two jays on one perch--How say'st,
prithee, and in sooth yes, sure! I'd sing you _The Cowpuncher's
Lament_, sweet and low, with tears in my voice. As it is, I'll
be getting the local colour a bit smudged, maybe: but I guess--
I guess,' said Caffyn--and his gaze seemed to turn inward and
become far withdrawn--'I guess--'O Hardy, kiss me ere I die!'--
No, that's wrong: it isn't the cockpit of the _Victory_.
It's the after-saloon of the Calais-Dover packet--shortest
route--and I see you two there at table, eating cold roast beef,
underdone, with plain boiled potatoes. With plain boiled
potatoes--yes, and mixed pickles.' He passed a hand over his
eyes. 'Excuse me, gentlemen; the vision is blurred just here--
if someone would kindly shoot that lady on the stage and stop
her--it's not much to ask, when she's exposing so much of her
personality--How the devil can I tell the difference between
mixed pickles and piccalilli while she's committing murder on
the high C? _Passez outre_. . . . I see you eating like men who
haven't seen Christian food for years; yet you are swallowing it
in a hurry that almost defeats the blessed taste; because one of
you has just shouted up, with his mouth full, a command to be
informed as soon as ever the white shore of Albion can be spied
from deck. It is a race with Time--Shakespeare's Cliff against
a pickled onion. . . . Oh, have done! have done!'

"'Thank you, Caffyn,' said I. 'You may come out of your trance.
You have done admirably.'

"'Wonderful,' breathed Farrell; and he breathed it heavily.
'I won't say I'd actually arrived at a plain-boiled potato--'

"'But it was floating in your brain,' I chimed him down.
'Such is the province of imaginative art, of poetry, as defined
by that great Englishman, Samuel Johnson. It reproduces our
common thoughts with a great increase of sensibility.'

"'Mr. Caffyn has put it rightways, anyhow,' Farrell insisted.
'Look here, Doctor'--he calls me by that title and none other--
'What's the programme for to-morrow.'

"'Versailles,' said I.

"'Then we'll make it so. But, the day after, I'm for England.
. . . I don't mind telling you, Mr. Caffyn, that the Doctor
and me hit it off first-class.'

"'I've noted it,' said Caffyn quietly.

"'And it's the rummier,' Farrell pursued, 'because him and me--
or, as I should say, he and I--started this tour upon what you
might call a mutual--what's the word? misunderstanding?--no, I
have it--antipathy. Is that correct, Doctor?'

"'Perfectly,' I agreed.

"'T'tell the truth,' confessed Farrell, 'I've always been up
against schoolmasters; yes, all my life. They've such a--such
a--well, as this ain't Wimbledon, one may speak it out--such a
bloody superior way of giving you information. Now if there's
one thing in th' world I 'bominate, it's information.' Farrell
threw a fierce glance around the dining tables as if defiantly
making sure of his ground. 'But I'll say this for the Doctor;
he never gives you any. That is, you have to pump for it. . . .
But we've had, we two, a daisy of a time. The great thing about
travel, Mr. Caffyn, is that it enlarges the mind. Yes, sir, and
in Doctor Foe's company you positively can't help it.'

"'I'm sorry, Farrell,' said I.

"'Sorry?' he exclaimed. 'Why should you be sorry? I _like_
having a--a wider outlook on things, provided it ain't banged in
a man's eye. In fact, I don't mind confessing to you, Mr.
Caffyn, here in the Doctor's presence, that this has been a
great experience for me. I've had a good time, as I believe,
sir, they say in your country. But I look around me'--here
Farrell looked again and almost theatrically around the feast of
Comus--'and I say that, be it never so homely, give me Wimbledon
to wind up. You and me, Doctor--or, as I might say, you and I,
are for home, after all--and the old cooking. Our ways
henceforth may lie separate; but we've a bond in common and any
time you care to look me up at Wimbledon I shall be most happy.
We'll crack a bottle to our travels.'

"'Right,' I agreed. 'Caffyn, will you make a note of at too?'

"'And Mr. Caffyn--at any time--Goes without saying,' pursued
Farrell.

"'Right,' agreed Caffyn."