 14. In which, incredible as it may seem, a non-pole has the better of a pole. On Tuesday morning Mr. Kirby woke eager for action. Things were fitting in. It was great fun. Mr. Kirby loved to fit things in. He ought to have been a soldier. He calculated with a pleasing exactitude. That morning, thanks to the stupid police and the telephone, he would find the green overcoat. That afternoon and evening he would invite such other guests as pleased him to dine with him next day, the Wednesday in London, after Professor Higginson's great lecture upon the immortality of the soul. It was an interesting subject, the immortality of the soul. To make certain that all his guests should be there, he would try to talk to one of them in London over the telephone from Ormiston that night, one of them called James McCaulay. He liked the boy. While he was about it, he thought he would get a friend of McCaulay's to come as well. He didn't know the name of the friend, but no matter, one should always ask one's friend's friends. So deciding, Mr. Kirby, delighted at the brightness of the day, walked merrily towards a quarter of Ormiston which we have already visited and which is not the choice of the rich. He walked through the dirty, narrow little streets prim in his excellent kit, well groomed in flourishing. He was old-fashioned enough to have a flower in his buttonhole, and he had been very careful with his hat. He was going to see someone he knew, someone he had known professionally in the past, and with whom a few years ago he had had very interesting business. He was going to see a man who bore a fine old crusading name, but who must have come down somewhat in the world, though doubtless he had kept his family pride. He was going to see a Mr. Montague. He knocked at the door in a sharp, commanding sort of way. It was opened quickly and the little old figure appeared within armed with insolence. When the eyes recognized Mr. Kirby, the face of that little old figure turned, in a moment, from insolence to servility. Good morning, Samuel, said Mr. Kirby bristly. No, I won't come in, thank you. I only want you to tell me something. I'm sorry to trouble you. Where is that green overcoat of Mr. Brassentons? He lost it a few days ago, and a friend of mine told me that you were quite likely to know. I will waste neither my time nor the produce in describing Mr. Montague's face at hearing this question. But I will say this much, that it looked like one of those faces carved in hard stone which antiquity has left us, quite white, not expressionless, but with an expression concealed, as one might swear, dumb. But the face spoke. It said in a very unnatural voice, a voice lacking breath, I swear to God. I don't know, Mr. Kirby. If I knew, I swear to God, I'd tell you. Just tell me what you did with it, said Mr. Kirby, easily and rapidly, looking at his watch. I've got to fit a lot of things in. I swear to God, sir, said the face. I gave it away. Mr. Kirby's smile grew stronger than suddenly ceased. He believed him. Was that all, Samuel? He asked, turning to go. There was a grave suggestion of peril in his voice. The face only said, Well, I had to warn my own lot, Mr. Kirby. I had to warn my nephew, sir. I had to warn Lipsky. Not to touch it. Not touch it on any account, Mr. Kirby. Lipsky in the Lengate, said Mr. Kirby. Then he's got it. Good morning, Samuel. And the lawyer strode away. He was sorry to have gone out of his way by a quarter of a mile, but he was glad to have got the information he desired. The little closed shop in the Lengate seemed to have something deserted about it as he came near. Mr. Kirby was familiar with the stack of old suits outside, the big, placarded prices, the occasional announcements of a sale. Today things seemed less promising and less vivacious, as though the master's hand were not there. Mr. Kirby had known that master, also in the past, all in the way of business, and if anything had happened to him he would have regretted it like the passing of a landmark. He walked straight into the shop and there, instead of the pole, Lipsky, what he saw was an obvious non-pole, an inept Midland youth, with flaxen hair, a stammerer, and a very bad salesman. Mr. Kirby addressed his young compatriot quickly but courteously. Would you be kind enough to give me Mr. Brasinton's green overcoat, he said? What? said the non-pole utterly at sea. There is a type in the modern world which is not destined to commercial success, and certain forms of the non-polish type present extreme examples of the kind. Mr. Brasinton's green coat, repeated Mr. Kirby steadily and hard. Upstairs Lipsky, rising from his sick bed, heard. He heard the unusual voice, he heard the name, and as I've written some pages back he came down. There is always a common bond between intelligence and intelligence, though the intelligence of the one man be that of an Englishman and of the other man be that of a pole, and as Lipsky entered the shop, Mr. Kirby and he at once picked up communications and the assistant at once dropped out of the scheme. Oh, Mr. Lipsky, said Mr. Kirby courteously. I'm afraid you've been ill, I'm sorry for that, but the fact is I'm rather in a hurry and have come from Mr. Brasinton's green overcoat. Yes, Mr. Kirby, certainly, said the shopkeeper. He did not understand this race, which was not his, but he knew perfectly well that Mr. Kirby would not betray him. Very glad you called, Mr. Kirby. I just got it done up to send round to Mr. Brasinton's this minute. My assistant took it in, sir. I began the non-pole. Silence! Thundered Mr. Kirby to his compatriot, and Mr. Lipsky was very grateful. Mr. Lipsky continued eagerly. You'll find it all right, Mr. Kirby. There's the checkbook in the pocket, that's how I knew it. Yes, of course, said Mr. Kirby, eerily. That's all right. You won't take it, Mr. Kirby, said Mr. Lipsky respectfully. I'll have it sent. Yes, certainly, not in Mr. Kirby as he went out of the shop. No hurry, any time this afternoon to my private house, not my office, you know. Mr. Lipsky came to the door and smiled him out, such a smile. Yes, Mr. Lipsky knew that private house of Mr. Kirby's. He had been granted two or three interviews there. He knew it extraordinarily well. The lawyer went back through the sunlit streets at a loose end. He felt unusually leisured, though he was a leisured man. Like the Perry in the poem, his task was done. He basked through that afternoon, he rang up the Rockingham Hotel in London to reserve a room and to order dinner for the next day. He rang up his friend Brasinton again, to be sure of the appointment and to be sure that Brasinton was bringing his son. Then, when evening came, he took down the big London telephone book and looked up the number of Sir Alexander Macaulay, the great doctor. It was years since Mr. Kirby had seen him, but they had known each other well in the past, and he would not mind the liberty. Besides which, what Mr. Kirby wanted, as he called up trunks after dinner, that Tuesday evening was not Mr. Alexander, but his son Mr. James. Time pressed and Mr. Kirby was very keen on talking to Mr. James Macaulay. He got Sir Alexander's house. He heard that Mr. James Macaulay was out. He got the name of the restaurant where the youth was dining with some friends. He rang up that restaurant, and at last, a little after half past nine, he had the pleasure of hearing Jimmy's fresh voice at the end of the wire. What that conversation was, I must, in my next chapter, take the reader to the other end of the wire to inform him. But hardly had he put down the receiver when the doorbell rang and the non-pole, carrying a bundle for Mr. Kirby, appeared in the hall. Evidently, Mr. Lipski was a good businessman. He would not disturb the routine of his shop, things that did not belong to business hours he did outside business hours, and he knew how to get the most out of his assistant's time. There stood, in Mr. Kirby's study, a large ottoman. He lifted the lid of that Victorian piece of furniture and bid the boy put the bundle in. Mr. Kirby was wholly devoid of superstition. Nonetheless, he went out to the house shortly after, and during the hour or two at his disposal, he took the midland air. Of course, there was nothing in Mr. Brassington's private twist about green overcoats. But why should a sensible man run any risk at all? End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of the Green Overcoat by Hilaire Belock This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 15 In which three young men eat and not only eat but drink. There are a few restaurants left in London where a gentleman may meet with some sort of privacy and with the chance of eating reasonable food. It might be more accurate to say there are none. But whether there are any left or not, I am going to invent one for the purposes of this story, and to inform you that on this same Tuesday night upon which Mr. Kirby was teleponing Sir Alexander Macaulay, Jimmy and Melba were very kindly entertaining Aujanan Sabir Leonidas Brassington. Mr. Brassington Jr., for short, at dinner in a private room at Bolters. Bolters, I need hardly inform such a woman of the world as my reader, is the one place left in London where a man can dine well and yet at his ease. It stands in a little street off Regent Street, eastward, and by happy accident has been worthy of its reputation for 70 years. Either it has not paid Bolters, for Bolters has been too proud that, anyhow, the welps of the lion are quite ignorant of Bolters, so are the cousins of the noble beast. So certainly are the greater part of such degraded natives of the European continent as we permit to visit our metropolis and to stare at our imperial populace. Even the youngbloods, for the most part, have not heard of Bolters. And, as it never spins a penny on advertisements, its name on the rare occasions when it appears in an article or a letter is ruthlessly struck out in proof by the blue pencil of the editor. Bolters is known and loved by perhaps 200 families. It is a tradition, and as you may well imagine, enormously expensive. If you are too dining at Bolters, you may expect to spend seven pounds, and if you are three, ten pounds. If you are very rich, it is worth your while to dine at Bolters. If you are only moderately rich, it is worth your while. If you are poor, it is also worth your while to go to prison for not paying, so excellent is the food. All this I tell the reader, in order that he may know how and why Jimmy and Malba were entertaining their friend. That friend, though his father was a very wealthy man, was a little awed by the surroundings. He had heard of Bolters once or twice, not more, from the fringes of that governing world in which some of his university friends lived. He remembered the son of a cabinet minister, complaining of Bolters, and a peer of the realm, a former furniture dealer and picture broker, and for that matter moneylender, saying that Bolters was filthy. Such praise was praise indeed. He remembered that ladies did not go to Bolters. He remembered talk of a dinner at Bolters just before a little group of men had gone out in the first year to India, and now that he was sitting in Bolters, he felt duly impressed. He knew that Jimmy's people were in what he could never be in. Malba was more of an enigma to him, but anyhow Malba was thick with Jimmy and Jimmy's lot. In other words, he knew that Jimmy and Malba were both on the right side of a certain line, which runs round very definitely through the core of English society and encloses a very narrow central space. But on the other hand he knew he had the best of reasons for knowing that they were not exactly flush. He knew they couldn't be flush because whereas he, Leonidas, had in the past won 1,800 pounds off them at cards and spent it, they, Jimmy and Malba, had won 2,000 pounds off him and had never got it for his father, unlike their fathers, had refused to pay. But Mr. Brassington, Jr. was not the man to introduce a subject of that kind. It is a subject of the kind that jars on toffs, unless indeed the toffs themselves introduce it, and on this particular occasion they did. Mr. Brassington, Jr. had drunk reasonably. Jimmy largely, Malba, immoderately. They had come to that one of the many courses which consisted in a very small frozen bird. When Jimmy playfully threw a bone at his guest, who ducked and missed it, and followed his action with the words. You didn't think we should run to this, did you, Booby? Well, said Algernon Sobby, Leonidas Brassington delicately, of course I knew that you wanted to settle, and God knows I tried. That's all right, said Malba, and a voice still clear and articulate. Your father's paid. And having said that, he burst into somewhat un-reasoning laughter, choked and drank a large tumbler of wine to cure his choking. Booby was bewildered. My father's paid, he said slowly? Jimmy nodded to confirm the great truth. Touched last week, Booby, he said. Where? wondered the astonished Booby. At the bank, said Malba, and Jimmy added, Oddly enough. Not the whole thing, said Booby, his face changing in expression as he said it. Malba's mouth being full for the moment, he did no more than lift up his eyes, nod and grunt. Jimmy, who was occupied in a swill, put down the inebriant, drew a breath and said, The whole Boodle. It was perhaps well for the two young men principally concerned that they were rapidly getting drunk, for in early youth the vice of drunkenness, so fatal to mature years, will often lead to astonishing virtues, and long before they came to the cheese, Jimmy and Malba had discovered that they must talk of a matter seriously. Indeed, Jimmy verged on the sentimental, Malba upon the stupidly pompous, as the ordeal approached. It was over coffee that they faced it, and Brandy was their aide. Look here, Booby, said Jimmy, after he and Malba had spent a silent five minutes mentally egging each other on. You ought to know the truth, it's only fair. We made your father's sign. Arjanan Salvi, Leonidas Brassington, had a sudden retrospective vision of his father, and he could make no sense out of the words. You made him? He said, flushed in a little. Cursed if you did, he'd make you more like. Any logical phrase enough, but one sufficiently full of meaning. Possibly, said Jimmy, with the insulted dignity of a person who has dined. If you don't want to hear about it, you needn't. Shut up, Jimmy, said Malba diplomatically. He tried to make his high and now uncertain voice kind as he went on to the younger Mr. Brassington. You see, Booby, it's like this. There was a little compulsion, you know. There was seen, wasn't there, Jimmy? Oh, yes, seen right enough, said Jimmy. Well, anyhow, he gave us the check, and then, you know, we had to prevent it's getting out. He's getting out, I mean. I don't understand the word you say, said Booby. No, said Jimmy, too thoughtfully, glaring at the fire. We were afraid that, if there's a roll, Booby, said Malba, affectionately, if there's real roll, you ought to be warned. That's what we think. That's it, said Jimmy. Then under the impression that their ordeal was over, and their duty done, the two conspirators lapsed in the silence. It was a silence which might have lasted some minutes. It was broken by the ringing of an electric bell in the corridor outside, a sound muffled by the door, and the German reservist, whom his unscrupulous government secretly paid to wait at table at Bolters, came in to tell Mr. Macaulay that he was wanted at the telephone. The god Bacchus, when he came out of Asia with those panthers of his, came into Europe the master of many moods, and Jimmy was a young man careless and content as he lifted the receiver. He heard a clear and rather high voice ask him whether he was Mr. Macaulay. It was a voice he seemed to remember. It was the voice of Mr. Kirby. I asked them at home where you were, said the voice, and they told me, I should find you if I rang up Bolters. Thank you, said Jimmy too loudly, but he had no cause for gratitude. I'm talking from Ormiston, said the voice. My name is Kirby. Jimmy's mood began to change. I've asked for six minutes, the voice went on, but I may as well tell you at once, it's about that house you took Greystones. Now Mr. Macaulay, in your own interest, would you be good enough to take the 10-15 from King's Cross? I'll meet you at Ormiston Station. The very brief heroic mood, not unknown to the Godbuckus, now rushed over Jimmy. Upon my words, sir, he began, then in the twinkling of an eye another mood, one of alarm prompted him to add, is it anything really urgent? And his third mood was panic. Good Lord, he could imagine one or two terribly urgent things in connection with Greystones, but if old Brassington were lying there dead, what if he had exploded and told the police in spite of his own shame? Mr. Kirby? He cried in a changed voice into the little black cup. Mr. Kirby? The wire was dumb, there was only the buzzing and spitting and the little fiendish snarls which the marvellous invention has added to modern life. Mr. Kirby? Said Jimmy still higher and for the third time, but it was a woman's voice, it answered. Another three minutes? It said snappishly, and then the wire went dead. Twice more, and once again did poor Jimmy implore the voice, but Mr. Kirby knew the nature of man, especially a youthful man. He had not attempted to persuade. In the study of his own house at Ormiston, he had already replaced the receiver, and was taken down from the bookshelf a volume of mullier. He loved that author, and there was a good two hours before he need meet the night-mail at the station. After a quarrel with the clerk in charge and sundry foolish troubles, Jimmy abandoned the machine. He came back to his two companions. They were in the midst of some silly Venus argument or other. They looked up at his entry, and they saw that he was changed. What's the matter, Jimmy? Said Malba. I—I—I want to talk to you, said Jimmy nervously, and singularly sober. He looked at Boobie. Oh, don't mind me, said Boobie. Well, but we do, said Jimmy roofily, and he drew Malba into the passage outside. There's a roll up, he said. What about? said Malba. Old Brassington, said Jimmy, and a nervous whisperer. Peached! He wouldn't dare, whispered Malba incredulously. Why not, said Jimmy, agonized. I've been called, you know, called up from Ormiston. Urgently, by the lawyer. There's a thing in the law, Malba, called Dress. Old Dress! He can't prove anything. Damn it all, said Jimmy. We don't know that. He wouldn't make a fool of himself, continued Malba, uncomfortably. You can't ever tell with these old Jossers. Anyhow, that lawyer chapped, my father knows, the man we got the house from has rung me up, and I've got to go and see him in Ormiston tonight by the ten-fifteen. Malba said nothing. Would you go, continued Jimmy, seeking valiance from his friend? No, said Malba stoutly. "'Tisn't you that have got to do it,' said Jimmy bitterly. "'Twas me, he called up. I signed, you know, Malba. It's my name they've got. If it was me,' began Malba. "'Tisn't you,' said Jimmy, rudely. And as he said it, Booby came out. "'If you two are going to talk business,' he said suspiciously. "'I'm going home to my rooms. Fact is, Booby,' said Jimmy. "'I've just heard about my aunt. She's dying.' Booby was concerned. "'Oh dear,' he said. "'Yes,' went on Jimmy rapidly, bringing out his watch, and seeing that it lacked only seven minutes of ten. "'It's bad, very bad. I can't wait.' He thrust himself into his coat, looked over his shoulder as he ran down the stairs, and with a very disconcerting cry, "'Keep, Booby,' hurled at his companion, he sought the street and a taxi, and was halfway to King's Cross before he remembered that Malba must pay for the dinner. But the thought was small comfort compared with the trial that was before him. And for an hour and three-quarters, as the train raced up north to the Midlands, he comforted himself less and less at the prospect. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of the Green Overcoat by Hilar Balak This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 16 In which Cross examination is conducted on Echelon, and if you don't know what that means, I can't help you. Cheerful, more than cheerful, all smiles, Mr. Kirby was standing at midnight upon the arrival platform of the Great Station in Charleston as the night mail came in. He saw the slender figure of a young man whose every gesture betrayed in absurd anxiety coming bewildered up from the end of the train and looking about him as though seeking a face. It was a fine cordial welcome, and greeted James McCauley, not in the least what he had expected. He was enormously relieved. "'My dear Mr. McCauley,' said the lawyer, with a fine generosity of impulse and in the heartiest of tones, "'how very good of you to come! I confess I was very much in doubt whether you would understand the urgency of my message at such short notice. You see,' he added, lying, expansively. They cut us off. "'Yes,' said Jimmy, thinking Ben explained all. "'It was a terrible nuisance,' pattered on Mr. Kirby, as he led the boy outside to a cab. "'That's the worst of the telephone. It's a great help in one way, but why you haven't brought a bag?' "'No,' said Jimmy. "'I should go back by the night mail.' "'As you will, my dear sir,' said the lawyer. He gave the address of his house, and they drove off. When they got into the study and were served with drink, Jimmy remembered his anxieties. He considered that imperative message and that hurried journey the business must be very urgent indeed. He was the more certain of it as he watched Mr. Kirby's face change to an expression more settled and less familiar. As Mr. Kirby said nothing, Jimmy volunteered another remark. "'I was giving young Bessington a dinner,' he said. "'Perhaps you know him. He was at King's with me.' Mr. Kirby said nothing. "'He belongs to this town,' added Jimmy. Mr. Kirby opened fire in a grave and measured voice. "'Mr. McCaulay,' he said. "'I know that you know young Mr. Brassington.' The words seemed to have a little more meaning than Jimmy liked. "'I am an intimate friend of Mr. Brassington's senior. We think a good deal of him in Ormiston, Mr. McCaulay.' Jimmy crossed his legs, lent back in his chair, sipped his wine, and put on an unconcerned man of the world visage not unlike that of a criminal about to be hanged. Mr. Kirby, with his head thoughtfully poised upon the fingers of his right hand and looking steadily away from Jimmy's face, said, "'Yes, we know Mr. Brassington, and we respect him highly. Jimmy could bear the tension no longer. "'What is it you want to say to me about Greystones?' he said suddenly. "'Yes, Greystones,' said Mr. Kirby, of course. "'But your mention of the Brassentons made me turn my mind to that sad loss Mr. Brassington has had. I daresay his son told you I'm afraid he can't recover, but the bank admits it's a forgery.' "'Forgery?' shrieked Jimmy. It suddenly occurred to him that Bube's fiendish father had discovered an awfully effective line of attack. "'Well, well,' said Mr. Kirby, "'that's not business. Of course I shouldn't have troubled you, as I have about other people's business. But about Greystones, Mr. McCauley, the trouble is, of course I did not blame you, but you will see you are legally responsible, but the trouble is that after you left the place, painting, weren't you, I think? We found the studio in, well, in an odd condition. And you see,' he went on, shifting his position and still conversational. "'Between you and me, the owner of the house is a little, why, almost a little odd,' Mr. Kirby smiled as he proceeded. "'It's not my business to talk about one client another,' he said. "'But you'll understand me. Fact is, it really sounds too ridiculous, and I did what I could to stop him. But you will understand why I telephoned.' He said, "'It summons you to-morrow. He says it's twenty-one pounds.'" Jimmy heard not a word. He was thinking of vastly more important things. Mr. Kirby continued, "'Of course I would have paid and communicated with you afterwards, Mr. McCauley.' Mr. Kirby laughed professionally. "'You are legally responsible, whoever it was got in and did the harm. The time isn't up, you see. And you know the absurdity of the thing is that a man can issue a writ like that. Why, bless you, you can go and buy a pair of boots on credit and find the writ waiting for you when you get home. It's ridiculous, but it's the law.' Jimmy's face was hot and his eyes were too bright. "'It was not a forgery, Mr. Kirby,' he said. "'Not a what?' Said Mr. Kirby, looking up with a fine affactation of confusion. "'I'm not talking about that, Mr. McCauley. Really, poor Brassington's loss is none of our business. But if you're interested, and if you're going to see young Brassington, you might tell him that his fathers put the whole thing in my hands. And I am going to have details of the check and who it was made out to tomorrow by post at my office. "'Mr. Kirby,' said Jimmy, in the most agitated of voices, I solemnly swear to God that the check was not forged. "'Really, Mr. McCauley,' said Mr. Kirby. "'I don't see what you have to do with—' "'Yes, but you will see,' interrupted Jimmy bitterly. "'You will see tomorrow morning.' "'Come, come,' said Mr. Kirby. "'I can't have all this unofficial information. It isn't fair, you know. Not fair to my position as a lawyer. If only you'll let me know about that little sum for damages of Greystone, since the landlord is so—' "'Mr. Kirby,' burst out the unfortunate James, "'the matter will not brook a moment's delay. That check, Mr. Brassington's check, the check you say was forged, was made out to me.' "'What?' shouted Mr. Kirby, springing to his feet. "'That check, Mr. Kirby,' went on James firmly, was made out to me. I passed it through the bank and I have that money in my bank, at least a good deal of it, and I have paid it away, my part of it, nearly all to my creditors. Then he remembered again that Melba would have to pay for the dinner, but it was very small comfort. Mr. Kirby drew a prolonged breath. "'Really, my dear sir,' he said. "'Yes, Mr. Kirby,' continued Jimmy. "'To me, I have passed it into my account and I have dispersed the money. And I will answer for it to any man. It was the payment of a just debt, and it was given to me by Mr. Brassington himself there. "'My dear Mr. McCauley,' began Kirby again. "'I'm telling you the plain truth and I have witnesses who can go into the box and swear. Not all that wretched, sniveling old froward can do. "'An old friend,' Mr. McCauley said, Mr. Kirby swobbly. An old friend. "'Well,' compromised Jimmy. "'I will say Puritan. Not all that old Puritan's money can get over the plain facts. We can swear to it, both of us, the place and the time. It was the morning after and it was at Greystones. "'The morning after what?' said Mr. Kirby. "'Tuesday, the morning after that party, of course, exactly a week ago. The dates on the check, and what's more, Mr. Brassington's letter signed by him on that occasion, and admitting the debt and his payment of it. "'Really?' said Mr. Kirby, indeed. This is most astonishing. "'He was there,' said Jimmy, in that ridiculous green overcoat of his, and he pulled the checkbook out of his pocket. At least it was in his pocket,' corrected Jimmy, with a careful fear of tripping up over a verbal inaccuracy where the law was concerned. He tried to get out of it, but we wouldn't have it, Mr. Kirby, and so and so he paid. "'You are perfectly certain it was Mr. Brassington,' said Mr. Kirby. "'No manner of doubt in the world,' said Jimmy calmly. We got him to come with us as he left the party, and we put it before him, and as I tell you, he paid it last and it was a just debt. I may as well tell you, Mr. Kirby, it was his son's debt. We had lost more than that to our friend in the past, and we paid honorably, and we weren't going to be vouched. "'After all,' Mr. McCauley,' said Mr. Kirby after a love of thought, "'I have asked you if you are sure it was Mr. Brassington, and the thing man with a nervous way with him and loosely dressed? Did he thrust his hands into his pockets? Did he try to talk about philosophy, or his being a philosopher, or something of that sort? Had he very large feet?' "'Yes,' I think,' said Jimmy reminiscently. Yes, he was tall and spare, and he was nervous distinctly, even violently, you might say. Yes, he had very large feet, and he had something about being a professor of philosophy, and at first he had his hands in his pockets, but afterwards, you know, well . . . well, look here,' said Mr. Kirby thoughtfully. It was Mr. Brassington, as you say, tall and square and very nervous, and on that philosophy crank, which is King Charles' head to him, and in that green overcoat of his. Oh, it must have been King Charles' house and ask him for the cash. What saw this business about gravestones?' Jimmy kept silent. At last he said, "'That's his business, Mr. Kirby, and he can tell you that end of the story.' "'Well, look here,' said Mr. Kirby. I have really no right to get anything of this sort out of you.' "'It's the truth,' said Jimmy. He was starting for that nightmare, and he mused, "'I tell you what, I'll stop that ridiculous business about gravestones in the morning. I've got to go up to town. Do you think you could see me tomorrow in town? What with your father's public position and Mr. Brassington's, Mr. Macaulay? It's much better to have the whole of that other thing out in private. "'But, Mr. Kirby,' said Jimmy, rising to go, "'I could. But wait a minute. I have promised my father to go to a big lecture. He wants me to take my sister. "'Where?' said Mr. Kirby carelessly. "'At the research club,' said Jimmy. "'Don't know who's giving it. It's about ghosts. It'll be over by six. "'It's a man on with his coat as they stood at the door. It's close to where the research club meets, and I'll expect you any time from six o'clock onwards. "'I shan't go out. Good night,' he said hardly, shaking Jimmy's hand with all the confidence in the world. I don't understand it yet. But you're both honorable men, and I fancy there's been no one else who's trained. The lawyer went back into his study, knelt on the floor, lifted the lid of the ottoman with his right hand, put the fingers of his left hand upon the open underlip of that piece of furniture to steady himself, and gazed quizzically and sadly at the green overcoat. "'A beast,' he said. "'A fate-bearing man,' he said at the heavy lid slipped from the palm of his right hand. He had but just time to withdraw his left hand before it crashed down. Mr. Kirby got up a little shakily. He was a man of imagination, and he winced internally, as he thought, of crushed fingers. "'Try that on again,' he murmured, wagging his head savagely at the green overcoat . Try that on again, and I'll rip you up.' With that he switched off the lights and made his way to bed, maturing his plans for tomorrow. But he rather wished he had some outhouse or other in which to hide the garment. He felt a little afraid of all sorts of things, for instance, fire. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of the Green Overcoat by Dr. Higginson. Chapter 17 In which a professor professes nothing, a lecture is not delivered, and yet something happens. It was the morrow, Wednesday, in London, at Galton's rooms, and near five o'clock. Professor Higginson was feeling exceedingly nervous. He came into the little room where it was customary to lecture when the Research Club organized one of its great functions in Galton's, and he was not over-pleased to see three gentlemen waiting for him. He had hoped there would be no one but a servant or at the most the secretary. He was holding a little round bag in his hand. It contained his manuscript and the cap and gown. He asked whether he was to wear his cap and gown. Oh, I suppose so. What? said one of the gentlemen who was beautifully groomed and had iron grey hair, and what is more, wore a single eyeglass. That's all right, Bigelton. Isn't it? He turned to a very portly man quite bald, who kept his eyes so close shut that one might have thought him blind. But Professor Higginson knew at that word that he was the presence of Lord Bigelton, and he suffered that mixture of pleasure and apprehension which dons suffer in the presence of the great. He wondered who the first speaker might be. If this bald-headed man with eyes shut fast like a pig was Lord Bigelton, why then the well-groomed man with iron grey hair and the single eyeglass who was so familiar might be informed. All Old Bigelton said was What's that, Jack? Yes. Had steadfastly refused to open his eyes. But Professor Higginson, unobservant as he was, could see that they were not absolutely fast, but that between the upper and lower lid they gleamed an intense and dangerous cunning. It was always said that Lord Bigelton might have had chosen, but certainly a man with those eyes had reached whatever eminence he cared to reach. There was no meeting them. They lay an ambush behind their heavy lids and did useful work through the slits beneath. All this did not put the Professor at his ease. He pulled out his manuscript and let it drop. A third man picked it up and handed it to him again with a ready look. The man coming into the room had taken him for a young man, for he had the cut and the facial lines of youth. But as the light from the window fell upon him, as he picked up the papers, the face that smiled was a face well over fifty, perhaps nearer sixty. Professor Higginson was not a little astonished to see the same smile suddenly appearing and disappearing on the face three words no one. A little more experience of the world would have enabled him to label the features of the man, for that smile goes with the ministry of the fine arts, and no less a one than Sir John Hooker stood before him. But Mr. Higginson had got no further than Lord Bigelton. That was enough for him. He struggled into his gown with difficulty, and wondered whether a fourth man who was on was a home secretary or a field marshal or what. They made a little procession, Bigelton putting upon the professors back a powerful pushing hand by way of encouragement. The well-groomed man with the eyeglass saying what, twice to himself and aimly, and the minister for the fine arts leading the way with a gate like a dromedary's. They passed through a door and a door came into the great room. There was a small raised platform to which the professor was guided. The three men walked back into the body of the hall and the professor found himself alone, and without friends, gowned with his body of manuscript before him upon a desk, and overlooking three or four hundred of the richest and therefore the most powerful men and women in England, with not a few of them. In moments of strain subconscious impressions are the strongest, as no one should know better than a professor of psychology, and Professor Higginson was free to confess in later years that in the first moments of nervous agony which he suffered, as he looked over that mass of cabinet ministers, fine ladies, actresses, moneylenders, black mailers, courtesans and touts, the chief thing that impressed him was the enormous size of the women's hats. He grasped the desk firmly, cleared his throat and began to read. The Hope of a Life Beyond the Grave Here Professor Higginson lifted his head and fumbled for a moment with his collar stud. It was an unfortunate, it was a tragic move. For as he lifted his eyes during that one instant he saw a sight that froze his blood. Squeezing with many apologies through the standing mass at the end and sides of the great room was a very well-dressed young gentleman, close-knit, darken features and athlete, and the features above the smart coat and collar were features that he knew. The form edged its way bearing before it with exquisite skill and exquisite top hat inverted. It was making for the front row of chairs, where one or two places still remained reserved and unused, and as that form advanced, subliminal fear, the oldest of the gods, towered up over Professor Higginson's soul. It was Jimmy. The young man had made his way to the front row of chairs. He had sat down. He had carefully deposited his body. The mass of those who governed us were beginning to turn their faces. Some an annoyance, some an amusement towards him. The two duchesses, the four actresses, the eight courtesans, had already lifted to their eyes long-hambled spectacles of scorn. When the dreadful little silence was broken by the Professor mumbling once more mechanically, with eyes staring before him, his eyes, the hope of a life beyond the grave, the young man had looked up, and had seen the Professor's face. The Professor had seen the sudden recognition in the young man's eyes. That day he read no more. With a curious, unformed cry, such as a hunted animal would give when it is too suddenly roused from its retreat, he snatched up his papers, stumbled down and bolted through the curtain and the door and was off. He was off, racing through the little enter room. He was flying down the stone staircase three steps at a time. The subliminal self was out on holiday. It was working top notch and, Lord, how it drove the man. In the room, thus abruptly abandoned by its principal figure, there was confusion and not a little of that subdued delight, with much the rich always hails some break in the monotony of their lives. Most of the men were standing up, the less bulky of the ladies had followed their example. Perhaps a hundred people were talking at once when not thirty seconds after the Professor had performed his singular gymnastic feet, one in that audience had put two and two together and had been struck by an inspiration from heaven, and the fine frocks and trousers and the top hats, and the lornettes and the single eyeglasses got a sharp second shock at seeing Jimmy, who had so lately arrived, leap with the quick and practiced gesture of an athlete to the platform, cut across it like a hare, and disappear in his turn through the curtain and the door beyond. He was after him. Down the long corridor which ran along the basement of the building, he had reached the door, and he had gone to the side door, to the side door where professionals entered, toward the Professor. He had reached its end when glancing over his shoulder he saw that face he would not see, and as he passed the doorkeeper he shouted in an agonized cry, Stop him! and plunged into the street. The doorkeeper was the father of a family, a heavy drinker and a man of power, unwisely, to meet the charge of that young came rich bone and muscle which was thundering down the passage in pursuit. He spread out his arms awkwardly to enforce his message of delay, and before he knew what had happened he was down on the stone floor holding desperately to something living that struggled above him, but himself oblivious of his name and place. As he came to the door, he saw a man in his right arm upon which he lay. The next was a sharp memory of football and early youth, and the next was the sight of an over-well-dressed young man holding a top hat in his clenched hand, and sprinting a hundred yards away up the street. The delay had been one of only a few seconds, but ten seconds as a hundred yards. Jimmy saw a little lot of people running ahead. He was lost to him, but Jimmy was too eager to suffer a check. Either Brasinton was not Brasinton, or there were two Brasintons, or there was no Brasinton, or Percy old merchants were nonce, or the world was standing on its head. But anyhow, one man knew the truth, and that one man must be gripped tight, and the truth had out of him quick, quick. Painful alternatives followed through Jimmy's mind as he ran, prison, suicide, enlistment, or in such an order of evils does luxury put the British army. But one obvious purpose stamped itself upon him, the man who knew must be got hold of, privately and securely, and must tell him all, and must tell him soon. He picked up the sin again from a gentleman leaning against an area railing who sold it for a trifling sum, and hotly followed up his quarry, not two minutes behind. At top speed, hatless and gowned clutching his notes the tall and lanky Don careered, as might a camel career, whom some massive lion pursues in the deserts of the East. Not often are the streets of London afforded so great a spectacle, as that of a professor muddily splashed hatless, with long loose legs and wild head and air racing with a mob at his heels. Those Londoners who happened to be at once at leisure and unconstrained by convention, newsboys and boot-blacks, loungers rambling thieves, pelted after him with a small but increasing crowd. Mr. Higginson heard their steps, and what was worse he saw amongst them was a policeman. He dashed down an alley that opened to his left, turned up a court, and ran to ground with a promptitude that was amazing. For in the little court and under a dark arch of it, he had seen the swing door of a low and exceedingly ill-favored public house. Once within the refuge, he sat down gasping. An elderly woman crowned with false hair was thrown back and leaning upon the wooden partition, attempting to recover himself. Outside he heard to his immense relief the thundering feet go past. They had missed his doubling. Mind speaks to mind in moments of strong emotion without the medium of words. Professor Higginson recognized that unless he drank something he would be thrown to the wolves. He had never been in a public house in his conception of its habits, but the woman's eye was strong upon him, and he had to give an order. He gave it in this form. I think I should like. No, I think on the whole. I should rather prefer a glass of, let us say, ale. For ale, said the woman severely. No one, said Professor Higginson, where at she fired suddenly and said, young man, Professor Higginson was in his fifty-seventh year and looked at. None of your funny business who are you, anyway. I have half a mind, but the thought of profit recalled her. She had already seized the handle of the pump and drawn him a glass when the noise of feet returned less tumultuous, and an exceedingly unpleasing voice was saying that there was no sound. An official sounding voice was replying with dignity, and Professor Higginson went to pieces inwardly, all together, outwardly, not a little. When he saw entering through the swing door a policeman, a policeman who, when he'd looked the philosopher up and down with due care, asked him, what's this, and received no coherent reply. He, vigorously, come in here, all of a blow, muttering with something wicked in his eyes, as you can see, I was ordering of him out when you came in. Professor Higginson had exhausted that vein of invention which the evil one had hitherto so liberally supplied. He sank upon the dirty little beer-stained stool behind him, and jibbered at the head. Lost your what? Said the policeman, half threatening, and half in doubt, hesitating in his venomind between a really good cop and the disastrous results of interfering with a toff. When before reply could be given to so simple a query, an authoritative voice and strong step were heard together pushing through the crowd outside, and there came into hear a strong young face of Jimmy. They say that the youngest generals make the best tacticians, though sometimes the worst strategist. Jimmy acted like lightning. There you are. He said genuinely to Mr. Higginson, and a little shriek automatically cut itself short in the professor's throat and ended in a gurgle. There you are. He said again, laying a powerful left hand upon Mr. Higginson's shoulder, and it was as simple to see the pragmatist shrink as he did so. Jimmy turned round and gazed in a pained but authoritative way at the policeman, who instinctively touched his helmet recognizing the master class. It's my father, officer, said Jimmy, gently and sadly. I'm sure, said the policeman, finding a little coin as large as a six pence but much more valuable, but I'm glad you've come, sir. I was worrying what to do. Oh, you needn't worry, said Jimmy, kindly again. Then with a pained look, he added, it's not so serious as it looks. He almost broke down, but he struggled bannfully and the policeman followed him with solemn respect. It will be all right, it's overwork. He turned to Higginson and said with pathetic reference, and he exercised upon the professor's arms so authoritative a grip that instinctively that philosopher rose. Conflicting doubts and fears were in that academic mind, and when the doubts and fears in the academic mind run not in one current, then is the academic mind so confused that it is impotent. If he fought or struggled, he would be arrested. If he was in the hands of the law, there might come out at any moment. Oh, Lord, and if he acquiesced, what then? What would that young fiend do to him? Where would he take him? Between the two he did nothing, but stood helpless there, hating Jimmy, hating the whole organization of British credit, hating its checkbooks and its signatures, hating the law, hating its millions, hating the wretched mass of poverty that waited tip-toe and expected outside, and now and then peeped in through the swing doors. As Jimmy led the old man out firmly by the arm, the little mob would have followed. But the policeman who has touched corn is a different animal from a policeman before feeding time. He savagely struck at the dirty lads and frowsy women in a little assembly, and cleared them off in loud tones, aiming a violent kick which just missed the little child who dodged it. The gentleman must be left in peace. He touched his helmet again to the said gentleman. He very tactfully sauntered slowly behind as Jimmy hurried his prize rapidly down the alley and into the broad street outside. A quarter of a mile away, or a little longer, the swell crowd would be coming out of Galton's. Five minutes in the open street with a gowned, hatless figure would mean another crowd. Jimmy decided again with admirable rapidity. Come into the Rockingham with me, he said, still keeping his arm tightly linked in the professors. To the way, said Mr. Higginson, recognizing the name, what do you want with him dragging back but sending signals of resistance through the nervous gestures he made. Simply to talk with you. Only ten minutes, Mr. Brassington. I am not Brassington. Yes, I know. At least I must see you for ten minutes, said Jimmy, rapidly making for the fine great portal of the Rocking Ham. That great portal meant safety and retreat, and it was up the broad pavement. Professor Higginson yielded. He went past the magnificent quarter through the lounge. They were stared at a little but no more. Jimmy took his captive to a corner of the smoking room, sat him down in comfort, and asked him what he drank. The professor, with a confused memory of a recent experience, muttered, a little ale. And when it came he did not drink it for ale which he could not touch. Jimmy, drinking brandy, spoke to him in a low tone and with enormous earnestness. Professor Higginson, he began. There's been some bad mistake, some very bad mistake. I don't understand what you mean, said Professor Higginson doggedly. Good heavens, said Jimmy, really startled and looking him full in the face. You mean to say you don't—I should have thought you would have heard about it. I lost it, he said, with rising voice and passion, after the brutal treatment. Oh, then you remember that, said Jimmy coolly. Dimly, replied the professor through his set teeth. He was getting to feel ugly, very dimly. And after that my memory fails altogether. Well, said Jimmy, leaning back at his ease and drinking his brandy, I'll refresh it. We gave you your checkbook, Mr. Brassington. I tell you my name's not Brassington, whispered the professor in a mixture of anger and fear. If you talk like that, at the top of your voice, someone will hear you. You're not Mr. Brassington? Said Jimmy, eyeing him steadily. That's what you said on the night when you'd lost your memory. Is it? answered the philosopher solemnly. Then I told the tooth. Damn it all, man, he said, exploding. Isn't it plain who I am? Didn't you see the people in that room? And don't you? Hear a recollection of his own importance, swelled him. Don't you know what my position is in the wealth university? Certainly, Professor Higginson, said Jimmy, in exactly the same tone in which he had Brassington a minute before. I quite understand. Unfortunately, during that terrible mental trouble of yours, you signed something. Then it doesn't count. Said Professor Higginson, shaking his head very rapidly from side to side, like a dog coming out of a pond. It doesn't count. He said again, in a still higher tone, it doesn't count. I won't have it. What did you say? And he sank back with every symptom of exhaustion. There's nothing to get nervous about, Professor Higginson, said Jimmy quietly, as he leaned forward to emphasize his words. Supposing you did sign something, it wouldn't be any harm, would it? As a matter of fact, you signed a check. Doesn't count, said Professor Higginson, staring in front of the door. No, of course it doesn't, said Jimmy soon and I. But it was Mr. Brassington's check. I don't believe it, said Professor Higginson, still yellower, and it doesn't count anyhow. I've taken legal advice, and I know it doesn't count. Oh, you've taken legal advice about something you don't remember, said Jimmy with a curious smile. He added rather earnestly that the check was made out to me. Then I've got you, said the worthy Don triumphantly, though in truth he had but the vaguest idea of how or why. But he wanted to keep up his end in general, and he thought the phrase was useful. Yes, said Jimmy with a glance of quiet affection and control. And I've got you. And what's more I've got a witness. Your unfortunate loss of memory prevents your knowing that, Professor Higginson. The professor's lips were framing once more the ritual formula it doesn't count when his eyes fixed with the horrid stare upon the short the pleasing figure of Mr. Kirby, which walked into the room, nodded genially at him, and then as genially at Jimmy. The solicitor drew up a chair and sat down before the two men. Didn't know you knew each other, he said with a cheerful rather jerky voice. We don't. That almost framed itself on the professor's lips when he thought better of it. And to his horror heard Jimmy say that the professor and he had met on board ship in the Mediterranean some years ago, and how glad he was to come across him again. It's a funny thing how small the world is, said Mr. Kirby simply. You meet a man under one set of circumstances and you get to know him quite intimately so that you will remember him all your life and then you think never to see him again when he turns up quite unexpectedly, doesn't he? You know Mr. Brassington? He added genially looking at the professor. I, I I know that name, said the wretched man. Oh, you must know the man himself, said Mr. Kirby in his hardiest manner. He's one of the best men in your town and he's got a particular devotion to intellectual things, you know. You know him, I think. He continued turning round to the younger man. Yes, said Jimmy solemnly. Yes, at least I don't know that I ever met Mr. Brassington but I was at college with his son. You know that Mr. Kirby? You don't know him, said Mr. Kirby in mild astonishment. Well, you'll be glad to meet him. He likes young men and between you and me he's a useful kind of man to know. You know his son? I'm sure he's talked of you often enough. I ought to remember that. Jimmy winced. There was an interval of silence during which all three men were occupied with idle thoughts. It was broken by Mr. Kirby saying as he'd looked at both his acquaintances in turn. Mr. Brassington and his son are in the hotel now. I'll go and fetch them. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of The Green Overcoat by Hilaire Bellock This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 18 in which the green overcoat triumphs and comes home. In a couple of minutes Mr. Kirby returned. He had Mr. Brassington closely locked by the right arm and was walking easily with him into the room. Booby sheepishly followed. Mr. McCauley said Mr. Kirby genially this is Mr. Brassington. Young men do not control their face as well unless they are the sons of scoundrels and have inherited their father's talents. Mr. Kirby looked exactly like a man who knows nothing of the sea and has just come to the lump on the bar. Mr. Brassington gave a very violent movement which Mr. Kirby, his arm securely linked in his friends checked with a wrench of iron. You don't know Professor Higginson I think do you Brassington. He introduced the two men and the philosopher knew more of the merchant than the merchant did of the philosopher. And now continued Mr. Kirby pleasantly but a little pompously it was not in his nature to be pompous but the occasion needed it. Now we all go upstairs. I've asked one of Mr. McCauley's friends to dinner he is also a friend of yours Mr. Algernon. He said turn into Booby kindly I don't know him myself but Mr. McCauley vouches for him and that ought to be enough for us, eh? By the way just before we dine would you mind coming into my sitting room all of you there's something I want to discuss something that you all want to hear I'm sure, something political he added lest panic should seize the more guilty of the tribe he led the procession upstairs Melba was waiting in the hall Jimmy picked him up on the way and squeezed his hand for courage they all filed into Mr. Kirby's private sitting room and they found it conveniently large as for their host he began fussing about like a man who was arranging a meeting of directors and finally took his seat at the head of the large table I think you'd better sit here, Brassington he said pointing to a chair on his right a new Professor Higginson would you come here pointing to the chair up on his left the rest he added abruptly can sit where they like my lord it's beginning to rain they sat awkwardly round him Mr. Brassington at least was used enough to his irrelevancy not to notice the last remark but Professor Higginson stared he had had enough to do with mental aberration in the last few days he didn't want any more of it it's beginning to rain continued Mr. Kirby turning to Mr. Brassington I'm sure you didn't bring your overcoat it's May and you didn't think you'd want it well I've taken the liberty of an old friend and I've got it here it's hanging up he jerked his head backwards they followed his gesture with their eyes and sure enough the green overcoat was hanging there ponderously and silently upon a peg it had one will and one purpose and it had accomplished it it had found its master you're a careless fellow Brassington said Kirby hitting the capitalist rather effectively upon the shoulder do you know you left your checkbook in the pocket yes said Mr. Brassington not very pleasantly I did Mr. Kirby left not a moment for thought well gentlemen I haven't come to talk about that I've come to give you some good news I know Hog this morning you all know Hog he's the man who handles the dibs at Westminster he's a really good fellow collects stuffed frogs has hundreds of them well they've done the straight thing at last and turning to Mr. Brassington they've put you in the birthday honors Brassington Mr. Brassington jumped it's a baronetcy then at last Mr. Kirby jumped it grew clearer and clearer to Mr. Brassington that the presence of all these gentlemen round the table was not needed but in the course of the next few minutes he had caused a change his mind Professor Higginson as the only elderly man present thought it was his duty to say I congratulate you sir to which Brassington answered shortly yes Mr. Kirby stroked his chin Professor Higginson he said pleasantly why did you forge that check what? half gasped half roared the philosopher and then he made a great gulping noise with his throat the clock on the mantel shelf ticked loudly Jimmy tried to sit still Mr. Brassington didn't try to do anything of the sort he had half risen when Mr. Kirby with a firm hand pushed him back into his chair a minute nothing was said Mr. Kirby occupied the minute by tapping slowly at intervals with his fountain pen upon the table at the end of the interval Professor Higginson saved himself by speech he pushed his chair back from him and stood up as a man does to address the flap doodles at a political meeting Mr. Brassington he said ignoring all the others it was I who forged your name I was imprisoned I was tortured I was constrained by these and his voice trembled as he pointed to Jimmy and Malba these two young scoundrels sir these that'll do Professor Higginson said Mr. Kirby it's actionable and at that dread word from a lawyer the professor sat down defeated Kirby said Mr. Brassington turning to his friend addressing him alone and trying to speak without excitement in a low tone I don't understand no Brassington you wouldn't said Kirby kindly turning as familiarly to him you see Professor Higginson here vowed your coat he began Mr. Brassington explosively yes yes continue Mr. Kirby don't mix up big things with little that's what he did any man would have done it and some would have taken his cape he just vowed your coat it was that night at Perkins you remember the night you were going to Belgium and didn't ten days ago oh yes I remember well enough said Mr. Brassington bitterly well there you are said Mr. Kirby with the utmost simplicity it's all quite natural just a misunderstanding always happening they thought he was you so why often kidnaped him that's all all this explanation Mr. Kirby delivered in the easy tones of the man of the world who is setting things to rights in preventing hysterical people from tearing each other's eyes out there you are went on Mr. Kirby flourishing his hands gently in front of him there you are Mr. McCauley couldn't get his money thought he'd got you checkbook he was no longer to be controlled he pushed back his chair leaned over the table looked at poor Jimmy with a day of judgment look and said with intense determination you shall answer for it sir and I will not listen to your father or to your friends Mr. Kirby looked up at the ceiling then he looked straight down the table then he looked up at Mr. Brassington and Mr. Brassington sat down Brassington said Kirby when he had got his audience you have no action against Mr. McCauley your action is against Professor Higginson if you bring it, Professor Higginson is ruined and your son is besmirched and you look a fool and the government has done with you and Brassington remember that you owed that money I did nothing of the sort said the merchant sternly father said the wretched booby I'd won more than that off Jimmy I had really lost back again unless he'd been paid I don't know what would have happened I'd have cut my throat father said booby he meant it but it was exceedingly unlikely James McCauley for the first time defended his honor upon my soul sir I thought that I was dealing with you and good God if a debt Mr. Kirby intervened be quiet Mr. McCauley he said authoritatively you are a young man and I am trying to save you Brassington he continued turning to his friend and still talking in a strict authoritative tone the money is irrecoverable your son had won it and his winnings had gone in university debts I know what they are his friend won it back he was still a loser mind and at once he settled debts of his own which he could not bear you have nothing to recover but revenge and if you take that revenge you publicly ruin your own son you make yourself a laughing stock you throw away your future honors and his and you disgrace a man of high academic distinction whom you know perfectly well to have acted only weekly and foolishly you or I might have acted in precisely the same fashion he has not had a penny of your money I am the loser said Mr. Brassington quietly I have lost to ridicule and I have lost materially I have lost two thousand pounds the government said Mr. Kirby with a sudden change of tone to the commonplace inform me Brassington that you have planned a very generous act they inform me anyhow Hog informed me this morning or to be more accurate I informed Hog that as the most prominent citizen of Ormiston you have put ten thousand pounds at the disposal of Professor Higginson whose present fame throughout the world he bowed pleasantly to the Don who was full enough to bow in return I need not or dwell upon you have put ten thousand pounds I say at his disposal for research work in the magnificent field of subliminal relations of a future life in which he is at this moment our chief pioneer I said to be Willard Brassington catching the table I promise Professor Higginson ten thousand pounds for research work Yes you said Mr. Kirby firmly it'll be in the papers tomorrow and very right the government were he continued to recognize generosity of that sort Hog told me he heard it was only a thousand or two but I gave him the real figures but I never began Mr. Brassington well there you are interrupted Mr. Kirby in a matter of fact tone they think it and that's the important thing you of course and here he turned to Professor Higginson you will never see that money it isn't there No Professor Humbly a German in the livery of Cinderella's coachman solemnly entered the room and told them in broken English that the dinner was served Mr. Kirby rose briskly and they all rose with him he went to the green overcoat held it up before him with both hands and said to Mr. Brassington now Brassington which is it to be the merchant not knowing your garment how warm was its fur how ancient its traditional comfort about his person what a companion I leave it to you Kirby he said in a changed voice I've only to move and I shall do harm all round and if I sit tight I save eight thousand pounds and I win they were moving to the door when suddenly Mr. Brassington added good heavens what am I doing I thought I was going out nevermind said Mr. Kirby take it off again familiar things remain they are the only things that do and sure enough the bargain held now as to what followed reader or as I hope readers for it would be a pity to have only one I am too tired to tell you much and there's also an excellent rule that when you've done telling a story you should tack nothing on how the miserable professor was deluged with begging letters how he nearly went mad until Babcock suggested a plan how that plan was to pretend that he had left all the ten thousand pounds to the university upon his death and could not touch it how his colleagues marveled that with this new fortune he went on plotting as industriously how Sir John Brassington secretly but thoroughly enjoyed his baronetcy how Mr. Kirby delivered three addresses for nothing upon racial problems two in Ormiston and one in the East End of London how Professor Higginson was compelled for many years to review the wildest books about spooks and a lecture until he was thin as a rail often for nothing upon the same subject how these things you will have to read in some other book which I most certainly do not mean to write and which I do not think anybody else will write for you how the wealth university looked when it found that there was no ten thousand pounds at all after Professor Higginson's death none of us know for the old idiot is not yet dead how they will look does not matter in the least for the whole boiling of them are only people in a story and there is an end of them End of Chapter 18 End of the Green Overcoat by Hilaire Bellock