 Chapter XXI of THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF. Jones, after the magic draft administered by Sims, entered into a blissful condition of twilight sleep, half-sleep, half-drowsiness, absolute indifference. He walked with assistance to the hall door and entered a motor-car. It did not matter to him what he entered or where he went. He did not want to be disturbed. He roused himself during a long journey to take a drink of something held to his lips by someone and sank back, tucking sleep around him like a warm blanket. In all his life he had never had such a gorgeous sleep as that. His weary and harassed brain reveled in moments of semi-consciousness, and then sank back into the last abyssms of oblivion. He awoke a new man, physically and mentally, and with an absolutely clear memory and understanding. He awoke in a bedroom, a cheerful bedroom, lit by the morning sun, a bedroom with an open window through which came the songs of birds and the whisper of foliage. A young man dressed in a black morning coat was seated in an armchair by the window, reading a book. He looked like a superior sort of servant. Jones looked at this young man, who had not yet noticed the awakening of the sleeper, and Jones, as he looked at him, put facts together. Sims, Cavendish, the fact that he had been doped, the place where he was, and the young man. He had been taken here in that conveyance, whatever it was. They had thought him mad. They had carted him off to a mad-house. This was a mad-house. That guy in the chair was an attendant. He recognized these probabilities very clearly, but he felt no anger and little surprise. His mind, absolutely set up and almost renewed by profound slumber, saw everything clearly and in a true light. It was quite logical that, believing him mad, they had put him in a mad-house, and he had no fear at all of the result simply because he knew that he was sane. The situation was amusing. It was also one to get free from. But there was plenty of time, and there was no room for making mistakes. Curiously enough, now, the passionate or almost passionate desire to recover his own personality had vanished, or at least was no longer active in his mind. His brain, renewed by that tremendous sleep, was no longer tainted by that vague dread, no longer troubled by that curious craving to have others believe in his story, and to have others recognize him as Jones. No, it did not matter to him, just now, whether he recovered his personality in the eyes of others. What did matter to him was the recovery of his bodily freedom. Meanwhile, caution! Like Brer Rabbit, he determined to lie low. Say, said Jones, the young man by the window started slightly, rose and came to the bedside. What a clock, said the patient. It has just gone half past eight, sir, replied the other. I hope you have slept well. Jones noticed that this person did not my lord him. Not a wink, said he, tossed and tumbled all night. Oh, say, what do you think? The young man looked puzzled. And would you like anything now, sir? Yes, my pants. I want to get up. Certainly, sir, your bath is quite ready, replied the other. He went to the fireplace and touched an electric button. Then he bustled about the room getting Jones's garments together. The bedroom had two doors, one leading to a sitting-room, one to a bathroom. In a minute the bathroom door opened and a voice queried. Hot or cold? Hot, said Jones. Hot, said the attendant. Hot, said the unseen person in the bathroom, as if registering the order in his mind. Then came the fizzling of water and in a couple of minutes the voice. Gentlemen's bath ready! Jones bathed, and though the door of the bathroom had been shut upon him and there was no person present, he felt all the time that someone was watching him. When he was fully dressed, the attendant opened the other door and ushered him into the sitting-room, where breakfast was laid on a small table by the window. He had the choice between eggs and bacon and sausages. He chose the former and whilst waiting, attracted by the pleasant summery sound of croquet-balls knocking together, he looked out of the window. Two gentlemen in white flannels were playing croquet. Stout, elderly gentlemen they were. And on a garden seat a young man in flannel trousers and a gray tweed coat was seated watching the game and smoking cigarettes. He guessed these people to be fellow prisoners. They looked happy enough and having noticed this fact he sat down to breakfast. He noted that the knife accompanying his fork was blunt and of very poor quality, of the sort warranted not to cut throats, but he did not heed much. He had other things to think of. The men in flannels had given him a shock. Instinctively he knew them to be inmates. He had never considered the question of lunatics and lunatic asylums before. Vague recollections of Edgar Allen Poe and the works of Charles Reed had surrounded the term lunatic asylum with an atmosphere of featherbeds and brutality. The word lunatic conjured up in his mind the idea of a man obviously insane. The fact that this place was a house quite ordinary and pleasant in appearance and these sane-looking gentlemen lunatics gave him a groove. The fact that an apparently sane individual can be held as a prisoner was beginning to steal upon him that a man might be able to play croquet and laugh and talk and take an intelligent interest in life and yet just because of some illusion be held as a prisoner. He did not fully realize this yet, but it was dawning upon him. But he did fully realize that he had lost his liberty. Before he had finished his eggs and bacon this recognition became acute. The fear of losing his own personality had vanished utterly. All that haunting dread was gone. If he could escape now, so he told himself, he would go right back to the States. He had eight thousand pounds in the National Provincial Bank. No one knew that it was there. He could seize it with a clear conscience and take it to Philadelphia. The shadow of Rochester, oh, that was a thing gone forever, dissipated by this actual fact of lost liberty, so he told himself. A servant brought up the times and he opened it and lit a cigarette. Then as he looked casually over the news and the doings of the day, an extraordinary feeling came upon him. All this printed matter was relative to the doings and ideas of free men, men who could walk down the street if the fancy pleased them. It was like looking at the world through bars. He got up and paced the floor, the breakfast things had been removed, and the attendant had left the room and was in the bedroom adjoining. Jones walked softly to the door through which the servant had carried away the things and opened it gently and without noise. A corridor lay outside and he was just entering it when a voice from behind made him turn. Do you require anything, sir? It was the attendant. Nothing, said Jones. I was just looking to see where this place led to. He came back into the room. He knew now that every moment of his was watched and he accepted the fact without comment. He sat down and took up the times whilst the attendant went back to the bedroom. He had said to himself, unawaking, that a sane man, held as insane, could always win free just by his sanity. He was taking up the line of reasoning now and casting about him for a method. He was not long in finding one. The brilliancy of the idea that it all at once struck him made him cast the paper from his knees to the floor. Then, having smoked a cigarette and consolidated his plan, he called the attendant. I want to see the gentleman who runs this place. Dr. Hoover, sir? Yes. Certainly, sir, I will ring and have him sent for. He rang the bell, a servant answered and went off with the message. Jones took up the paper again and resumed his cigarette. Five minutes passed and then the door opened and a gentleman entered. A pleasant-faced, clean-shaven man of fifty, dressed in blue surge and with a rose in his buttonhole, such was Dr. Hoover. But the eye of the man held him apart from others, a blue-grey eye, keen, sharp, hard, for all the smile upon the pleasant-face. Jones rose up. Dr. Hoover, I think, said he. Good morning! said the other in a hearty voice. Fine day, isn't it? Well, how are we this morning? Oh, I'm all right, said Jones. I want to have a little talk with you. He went to the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, and closed it. For your sake, said Jones, it's just as well we have no one listening. The attendant is in there. You are sure he cannot hear what we say, even with the door shut? Quite! said Hoover with a benign smile. He was used to things like this, profoundly confidential communications concerning claims to crowns and principalities, or grumbles about food. He did not expect what followed. I am not going to grumble at your having me here, said Jones. It's my fault for playing practical jokes. I didn't think they'd go to the length of doping me and locking me up under the name I gave them. And what name was that? asked Hoover kindly. Jones. Oh, and now tell me, if you are not Mr. Jones, who are you? Who am I? Well, I can excuse the question. I am the Earl of Rochester. This was a nasty one for Hoover, but that gentleman's face showed nothing. Indeed, said he, then why did you call yourself Jones? For a joke, I slung them a yarn and they took it in. Then they gave me a draft to compose my nerves. They thought really that I was doddy. And I drank it. You must have seen the condition I was in when I got here. Home, home, said Hoover. He was used to the extremely cunning ways of gentlemen off their balance. And he had a profound belief in Sims and Cavendish, whose names endorsed the certificate of lunacy he had received with the newcomer. He was also a man just as cunning as Jones. Well, he said, with an air of absolute frankness, this takes me by surprise. A practical joke, but why did you play such a practical joke? I know, said Jones. It was stupid, just a piece of Tom Fulory. But you see how I am landed. Dr. Hoover ignored this evasion whilst denoting it. Then he began to ask all sorts of little questions, seemingly irrelevant enough. Did Jones think that he was morally justified in carrying out such a practical joke? Why did he not say it once it was a practical joke, after the affair had reached a certain point? Was his memory as good as of old? Was he sure in his own mind that he was the Earl of Rochester? Was he sure that as the Earl of Rochester he could hold that title against a claim that he was not the Earl, give details, and so forth? Now, suppose, said Dr. Hoover, I were to contest the title with you and say, you are Mr. Jones and I am the Earl of Rochester. How would you establish your claim? I am simply asking to find out whether what you consider to be a practical joke is a practical was, in fact, a slight lapse of memory on your part. A slight mind disturbance, such as is easily caused by fatigue or even work, and which often leaves effects lasting some weeks or months. Now I must point out to you that, as a practical joke or not, you came here calling yourself Mr. Jones, I would be justified in asking you for proof that you are not Mr. Jones. See my point? Quite. Well then, prove your case, said the physician, jovially. How can I? Well, if you are the Earl of Rochester, let me test your memory. Who is your banker? Cows. Hoover did not know who the Earl of Rochester's banker might be, but the promptness of the reply satisfied him of its truth. The promptness was also an index of sanity. He passed at a venture to a subject on which he was acquainted. And how many brothers and sisters have you? That was fatal. Jones's eyes fell under the pressure of Hoover's. There is no use in going on with these absurd questions, said he. A thing everyone knows. But I just want to prove to you, said Hoover gently, that your mind, which in a week from now will have quite recovered, is still a little bit shaky. Now, how long is it since you succeeded to the title? It's just a test memory question. Jones did not know. He saw that he was lost. He had also gained an appreciation of Hoover. Beside the fat Sims and the cadaverous Cavendish, Hoover seemed a man of keen common sense. Jones recognized that the new position into which he had strayed was a blind alley. If he were detained until his memory could answer questions of which his mind knew nothing, he would be detained forever. He came to the grand determination to try back. Look here, said he. Let's be straight with one another. I can't answer your questions. Now, if you are a man of sense, as I take you to be, and not a man like those others, who think everyone but themselves is mad, you will recognize why I can't answer your questions. I'm not Rochester. I thought I'd get out of here by pretending that I'd played a practical joke on those guys. It was a false move. I acknowledge it. But when I fixed on the idea, I didn't know the man I had to deal with. If you will listen to my story, I will tell you in a few words how all this business came about. Go on, said Hoover. Jones told and Hoover listened, and when the tale was over, at the end of a quarter of an hour or so, Jones scarcely believed it himself. It sounded crazy. Much more crazy than when he had told it to the Duke of Milford, and the reason of this difference was Hoover. There was something in Hoover's eye, something in his makeup and personality, something veiled and critical that destroyed confidence. I have asked them to make inquiries, finished Jones. If they will only do that, everything will be cleared up. And you may rest content, we will, said Hoover. Now for another thing, said Jones, till I leave this place, which will be soon, I hope, may I ask you to tell that confounded attendant not to be always watching me? I don't know whether you think me mad or sane, think me mad if you like, but take it from me. I'm not going to do anything foolish. But if anything would drive me crazy, it would be feeling that I am always watched like a child. Hoover paused a moment. He had a large experience of mental cases. Then he said, you will be perfectly free here. You can come downstairs and do as you like. We have some very nice men staying here and you are free to amuse yourself. I'll just ask you this, not to go outside the grounds till your health is perfectly established. This is not a prison, it's a sanatorium. Colonel Hawker is here for gout and Major Barstow for new writers, got it in India. You will like them. There are several others who make up my household. You can come on down with me now. Are you a billiard player? Yes, I can play. But see here, before we go down, where is this place? I don't even know what part of the country it's in. Sanborn on sea, replied Hoover, leading the way from the room. Now, in London, on the night before, something had happened. Dr. Sims, at a dinner party given by Dr. Tuck of Bethlehem Hospital, had, relative to the imagination of lunatics, given an instance. Only today, said Sims, I had a case in point. A man gave me, as his supposed address, 1191 Walnut Street, Philadelphia. But there is a Walnut Street, Philadelphia, said Tuck. And it's ten miles long, and the numbers run up well towards that. Half an hour later, Sims got into his carriage. Savoy Hotel, Strand, said he to the coachman. End of Chapter 21 Recording by Roger Moline Chapter 22 Of The Man Who Lost Himself This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Moline The Man Who Lost Himself by H. DeVere Stackpool Chapter 22 An Interlude Sims and his electric browam passed through the gas-lit streets in the direction of the Strand, glancing at the night pageant of London, but seeing nothing. I loved to linger over Sims, but what pages of description could adequately describe him? Buxom, sedate, plump and soothing, with the appearance of having been born and bred in a frock coat, above all things, discreet. You can fancy him stepping out of his browam, passing into the hall of the hotel, and presenting his card to the clerk with the request for an interview with the manager. The manager, being away, his deputy supplied his place. Yes, an American gentleman of the name of Jones had stayed in the hotel, and on the night of the first of June had met with an accident on the Underground Railway. The police had taken charge of the business. What address had he given when booking his room? An address in Philadelphia. Walnut Street, Philadelphia. Thanks, said Sims. I came to inquire because a patient of mine fancied seeing the report that it might be a relative. She must have been mistaken, for her relative resides in the city of New York. Thank you, quite so. Good evening. In the hall, Sims hesitated for a moment. Then he asked a page-boy for the American bar, found it, and ordered a glass of soda-water. There were only one or two men in the bar, and as Sims paid for his drink he had a word with the bartender. Did he remember some days ago seeing two gentlemen in the bar who were very much alike? The bartender did, and as an indication how, in huge hotels, dramatic happenings may pass unknown to the staff, not immediately concerned, he had never connected Jones with the American gentleman of whose unhappy demise he had read in the papers. He was quite free in his talk. The likeness had struck him forcibly, never seen two gentlemen so like one another, dressed differently, but still like. His assistant had seen them too. Quite so, said Sims. They are friends of mine, and I hope to see them again here this evening. Perhaps they are waiting in the lounge. He finished his soda-water and walked off. He sought the telephone office and rang up Curson Street. The Duke of Melford had dined at home, but had gone out. He was at the Buffs Club in Piccadilly. Sims drove to the club. The Duke was in the library. His grace had literary leanings. His history of the Siege of Bundelkhand, of which seven hundred copies of the first edition remained unsold, had not deterred him from attempting the Siege of Jitjupur. He wrote a good deal in the library of the club, and tonight he was in the act of taking down some notes on the character of Fuz Ali, the leader of the besiegers, when Sims was announced. The library was deserted by all save the historian, and getting together into a cozy corner the two men talked. Your grace, said Sims, we have made a mistake. Your nephew is dead, and that man we have placed with Dr. Hoover is what he announced himself to be. What? What? What, cried the Duke? There can be no doubt at all, said Sims. I have made inquiries. He gave details. The Duke listened. His narrow brain incensed at this monstrous statement that had suddenly risen up to confront it. I don't believe a word of it, said he when the recital was over. And what's more, I won't believe it. Do you mean to tell me I don't know my own nephew? It's not a question of that, said Sims. It's just a question of the facts of the case. There is no doubt at all that a man exactly like the late Your Nephew, in fact, stayed at this hotel, that he there met the Your Nephew. There is no doubt that this man gave the address to the hotel people he gave to us. And there is no doubt in my mind that he could make out a very good case, if he were free, that there would be a very great scandal, a world scandal. Even if he were not to prove his case, the character of Your Nephew would be held up for inspection. Then again he would have very powerful backers. Now you told me of this man, Mulhausen. How would that property stand were this man to prove his claim and to prove that Lord Rochester was dead when the transfer of the property was made to him? I am not thinking of my reputation, finished the ingenious Sims, but of your interests, and I tell you quite plainly, Your Grace, that were this man to escape we would all be in a very unpleasant predicament. Well, he won't escape, said the Duke. I'll see to that. Quite so, but there is another matter, the commissioners in lunacy. Well, what about them? It is the habit of the commissioners to visit every establishment registered under the Act, and unfortunately they are men. I mean, of course, that fortunately they are men of the most absolute property, but given to overriding, sometimes, the considered opinion of those in close touch with the cases they are brought in contact with. They would undoubtedly make strict inquiries into the truth of the story that Lord Rochester has just put up, and the result, I can quite see it, would drift us into one of those exposés, those painful and interminable lawsuits, destructive alike to property, to dignity, and that ease of mind inseparable from health and the enjoyment of those positions to which my labours and your Grace's lineage entitle us. Damn the commissioners! Suddenly broke out as Grace. Do you mean to say they would doubt my word? Unfortunately it is not a question of that, said Sims. It is a question of what they call the liberty of the subject. Damn the liberty of the subject! Liberty of the subject! When a man's mad, what right has he to liberty? Liberty to cut people's throats, maybe? Look at that fool Arthur. Liberty. Look at the use he made of his liberty when he had it. Look what he did to Langwathby. Sent a telegram leading him to believe that his wife had broken out again. You know how she drinks. And had been jailed in Carlisle. And the thing was so artfully constructed it said almost nothing. You couldn't touch him on it. Simply said, go at once to police court, Carlisle. See the art of it? Never mentioned the woman's name. There was no libel. Langwathby, to prosecute, would have to explain all about his wife. He went. What happened? You know his temper. He went to Langwathby Castle before going to the police court. And the first person he saw was his wife. Before all the servants. Before all the servants, mind you, he said to her, so they have let you out of prison, and now you'd better get out of my house. You know her temper. Before all the servants. Before all the servants, mind you, she accused him of that disgraceful affair in Pond Street when he was turned out on his pajamas, and they half ripped off him by Lord Tango's brother. Tango never knew anything of it, never would, but he knows now. For Lucy journeying him was at Langwathby when the scene occurred, and she's told him. The result is, poor Langwathby will find himself in the D.C. Liberty. What right has a man like that to talk of liberty? Quite so, said Sims, utterly despairing of pressing home the truth of the horrible situation upon this brain and blinkers. Quite so, but facts are facts, and the fact remains that this man, I mean, of Lord Rochester, possesses unlimited on your own showing great craft and subtlety, and he will use that with the commissioners in lunacy when they call. When do they call? Ah, that's just it. They visit asylums and registered houses at their own will, and the element of surprise is one of their methods. They may arrive at Hoover's any time. I say, literally, any time. Sometimes they arrive at a house in the middle of the night. They may leave an asylum unvisited for a month, and then come twice in one week, and they hold everyone concerned literally in the hollows of their hands. If denied admittance, they would not hesitate to break the doors down. Their power is absolute. But good God, sir! cried the Duke. What you tell me is monstrous. It's un-English. Break into a man's house, spy upon him in the middle of the night? Why, such powers vested in a body of men make for terrorization. This must be seen to. I will speak about it in the house. Quite so, but meanwhile there is the danger, and it must be faced. I'll take him away from Hoover's. Ah, said Sims. I'll put him somewhere where these fellows won't be able to interfere. How about my place at Skyball? Sims shook his head. He is under a certificate, said he. The commissioners call at Hoover's, inspect the books, find that Lord Rochester has been there, find him gone, find you have taken him away. They will simply call upon you to produce him. How about my yacht? asked the other. A long sea voyage for his health? Ah, said Sims. That's better, but voyage has come to an end. How about my villa at Naples? Properly looked after there, he will be safe enough. Of course, said Sims. That will mean he will always have to be there. Always. Of course, always. Do you think now I have got him in safety I will let him out? Sims sighed. The business was drifting into very dangerous waters. He knew, for a matter of fact, and also by intuition, that Jones was Jones and that Rochester was dead, and his unfortunate position was like this. One. If Jones escaped from Hoover's unsoothed and furious, he might find his way to the American consul, or horror, to some newspaper office. Then the band would begin to play. Two. If Jones were transferred on board the Duke's Yacht and sequestrated, the matter at once became criminal, and the prospect of long years of mental distress and dread, lest the agile Jones should break free, stood before him like a nightmare. Three. It was impossible to make the Duke believe that Jones was Jones and that Rochester was dead. The only thing to be done was to release Jones, soothe him, bribe him, and implore him to get back to America as quick as possible. This being clear before the mind of Sims, he at once proceeded to act. It is not so much the question of your letting him out, he said, as of his escaping. And now I must say this. My professional reputation is at stake, and I must ask you to come with me to Curson Street and put the whole matter before the family. I wish to have a full consultation. The Duke demirred for a moment, then he agreed, and the two men left the club. At Curson Street they found the Dowager Countess and Venetia Birdbrook about to retire for the night. Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had already retired, and though invited to the conference, refused to leave her room. Then, in the drawing-room with closed doors, Sims, relying on the intelligence of the women as a support, began, for the second time, his tale. He convinced the women, and by one o'clock in the morning, still standing by his guns after the fashion of the defenders of Bundelkund, the Duke had to confess that he had no more ammunition. Surrendered, in fact. But what is to be done? asked the distracted mother of the defunct. What will this terrible man do if we release him? Do, shouted the Duke, do why the imposter may well ask what will we do to him? We can do nothing, said Venetia. How can we? How can we expose all this before the servants and the public? It is all entirely Teresa's fault. If she had treated Arthur properly none of this would ever have happened. She laughed and made light of his wickedness. She, quite so, said Sims. But, my dear lady, what we must have to think of now is the man, Jones. We must remember that whilst being an extremely astute person, in as much as he recovered for you that large property from the man Mulhausen, he seems honest. Indeed, yes, it is quite evident that he is honest. I would suggest his release to-morrow, and the tendering to him of an adequate sum, say, one thousand pounds, on the condition that he retires to the States. Then, later, we can think of some means to account for the demise of the late Earl of Rochester, or simply leave it that he has disappeared. The rest of this weird conclave remains unreported. Sims, however, carrying his point and departing next day, after having seen his patience, for Sanborn on Sea, where he arrived late in the afternoon. When the hired fly that carried him from Sanborn Station arrived at the Hoover Establishment, it found the gate wide open, and at the gate, one of the attendants standing in an expectant attitude, glancing up and down the road as though he were looking for something, or waiting for somebody. Chapter 23 of The Man Who Lost Himself This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. The Man Who Lost Himself by H. DeVere Stackpool Chapter 23 Smithers Hoover, leading the way downstairs, showed Jones the billiard room on the first floor, the dining room, the smoke room. All pleasant places with windows opening in the gardens. Then he introduced him to some gentlemen. To Colonel Hawker, just come in from an after breakfast game of croquet, to Major Barstow, and to a young man with no chin to speak of, named Smithers. There were several others, very quiet people, the three mentioned are enough for consideration. Colonel Hawker and Major Barstow were having an argument in the smoking room when Hoover and Jones entered. I did not say I did not believe you, said Barstow. I said it was strange. Strange, cried the Colonel, what do you mean by strange? It's not the word I object to. It's the tone you spoke in. What's the dispute? asked Hoover. Why, said Barstow, the Colonel was telling me he had seen pigs in Burma, sixteen feet long, and sunflowers twenty feet in diameter. Oh, that story, said Hoover. Yes, there's nothing strange in that. I'll knock any man down that doubts my word, said the Colonel. That's flat. Hoover laughed. Jones shivered. Then the disputants went out to play another game of croquet, and Jones, picking up with Smithers, played a game of billiards, Hoover going off and leaving them alone. After playing for about five minutes, Smithers, who had maintained an uncanny silence, broke off the game. Let's play something better than this, said he. Did you know I was rich? No, said Jones. Well, I'm very rich. Look here. He took five sovereigns from his pocket and showed them with pride. I play pitch and toss with these, said he. Hoover doesn't mind so long as I don't lose them. Pitch and toss with sovereigns is fine fun. Let's have a game. Jones agreed. They sat in the die-van and played pitch and toss. At the end of ten minutes, Jones had won twenty pounds. I think I will stop now, said Smithers. Give me back that sovereign I lent you to toss with. But you owe me twenty pounds, said Jones. I'll pay you that tomorrow, said Smithers. These sovereigns are not to be spent. They are only for playing with. Oh, that doesn't matter, said Jones, handing back the coin, and recognizing that penniless as he was, here was a small fund to be drawn upon by Cunning, should he find a means of escape. I'm rich. I'm worth ten millions. Ten million sovereigns? Yes. Golden ones like these? Yes. I say, said Smithers, could you lend me one or two? Yes, rather. But you mustn't tell Hoover. Of course I won't. When will you lend me them? When I get my bag of sovereigns from London, they are coming down soon. I like you, said Smithers. We'll be great friends, won't we? Rather, come out in the garden. They went out. The garden encircled the house. Big, wrought iron gates, locked, gave upon the road. The tennis and croquet lawns lay at the back of the house. Brick walls, covered in part with fruit trees, surrounded the whole place. The wall on the left of the house struck Jones as being practicable, and he noticed that none of the walls were spiked or glassed. Hoover's patients were evidently not of the dangerous and agile type. What's at the other side of this wall? Asked Jones as they passed along by the left-hand barrier. Smithers giggled. Girls, said he. Girls? What sort of girls? Little ones with long hair and bigger ones. They learned their lessons there. It's a school. The gardener left his ladder there one day and I climbed up. There were lots of girls there. I nodded to them and they all came to the wall. I made them all laugh. I asked them to come over the wall and toss for sovereigns. Then a lady came and told me to go away. She didn't seem to like me. Jones, all during luncheon, the meal was served in his own apartments, revolved things in his mind, Smithers amongst others. Smithers' mania for handling gold had evidently been satisfied by giving him these few coins to play with. They were real ones, Jones had satisfied himself on that. Smithers, despite his want of chin, was evidently not a person to be put off with counterfeit coin. Jones had come down from London dressed just as he had called at Curson Street, that is to say, in a black morning coat and gray trousers. His tall hat had evidently been forgotten by his deporters. After luncheon he asked for a cap to wear in the garden and was supplied with a gray-tweed shooting cap of hoovers. With this on his head he took his seat in an arbor, an arbor which, he noticed, had its opening facing the house. Here, smoking, he continued revolving his plans and here, afternoon tea was served to him. Ten minutes later the colonel and the major began another game of croquet and five minutes after that came from the house Smithers with a butterfly net in his hand. Jones left the arbor and joined Smithers. The sovereigns have come, said Jones. The bag of sovereigns? Yes, with a big red seal from the bankers. I'm going to give you fifty. Oh Lord, said Smithers, but you haven't said anything to Hoover. Not a word, but you must do something for me before I give you them. What's that? I want you to go up to Colonel Hawker and take him aside. Yes? And tell him that Major Barstow says he's a liar. Yes? That's all. That's easy enough, said Smithers. I'll stand by the wall here and if any of the girls look over, as they probably will, from going to whistle to them, I'll make them come over and toss for sovereigns. That would be a lark, said the unfortunate. Bother, said Jones, I forgot. What? All my sovereigns are upstairs in the bag. I know, lend me yours whilst I'm waiting. I—I never lend sovereigns, said Smithers. Why, I'm going to give you fifty, and I only ask you to lend me five for a moment in case those girls. Smithers put his hand in his pocket and produced the coins. They were in a little chamois leather bag. Don't open the bag, said he. Just shake it, and they'll know there are sovereigns in it by the noise. Right, said Jones. Now go and tell Colonel Hawker that Major Barstow says he's a liar. Smithers went off, butterfly net in hand. Jones was under no delusion. He reckoned that the garden was always under surveillance, and that a man getting over a wall would have little chance of reaching the street, unless he managed to distract the attention of watchers. He thought it probable that his conversation with Smithers had been watched, and possibly the handing-over of some article noted. There was a seat just here, close to the wall. He sat down on it, pulled his cap over his eyes, and stretched out his legs. Then, under the peak of the cap, he watched Smithers, approaching Colonel Hawker, interrupt him, just as he was on the point of making a stroke, and lead him aside. The effect on the Colonel's mind of the interruption to his stroke, followed by the sudden information that his veracity had been impeached, was miraculous and sudden as the slap on the side of the face that sent the butterfly-hunter flying. The attack on Barstow, who seemed to fight well, the cries, the shouts, the implications, the fact that half a dozen people, inmates and attendants, joined in the confusion as if by magic. All this was nothing to Jones. Nor was the subsidiary fact that one of the inmates, a quiet-mannered clergyman, with a taste for arson, had taken advantage of the confusion, and was patiently and sedulously at work, firing the thatch of the summer house in six different places, with a long concealed box of matches. Jones, on the stroke of the Colonel, had risen from the seat, and with the aid of a wall-trained plum-tree, had reached the top of the wall and dropped on the other side into a bed of mignonette. It was a hockey day at the school, and there were no girls in the garden. He ran across it to the open front gate and reached the road, ran down the road, which was deserted and burning in the late afternoon sunshine, reached a side road and slackened his pace. All the roads were of the same pattern, broad, respectable, and lined with detached and semi-detached houses set in gardens, and labeled according to the owner's fancy. Old Anglo-Indian colonels and majors lived here, and one knew their houses by such names as Lucknow, Kanpur, etc., just as one knows Azaleas by their blossoms. Jones, like an animal making for cover, pushed on till he reached a street of shops. A long, long street, running north and south with the shop fronts on the eastern side, sun-blinded and sun-lit. A peep of blue and perfect sea showed at the end of the street, and on the sea the white sail of a boat. Sandborn on sea is a pleasant place to stay at, but Jones did not want to stay there. His mind was working feverishly. There were sure to be a railway station somewhere, and, as surely, the railway station would be the first place they would hunt for him. London was his objective. London and the National Provincial Bank. But of the direction or the distance to be traveled, he knew no more than the man in the moon. CHAPTER XXXIV THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF by H. Devere Stackpool CHAPTER XXIV He runs to earth. As the fox seeks an earth, he was seeking for a hole to hide him. Across the road a narrow house set between a fishmonger shop and a seaside library displayed in one of its lower windows a card with the word Apartments. Jones crossed the road to this house and knocked at the hall door. He waited a minute and a half, ninety seconds, and every second a framed vision of Hoover in pursuit, Hoover and his assistants streaming like hounds in a hot scent. Then he found a decrepit bell and pulled it. Almost on the pole the door opened, disclosing a bustless, sharp-eyed and cheerful-looking little woman of fifty or so, wearing a cameo brooch and cornelian rings. She wore other things, but you did not notice them. Have you rooms to let? asked Jones. Well, sir, I have the front parlor unoccupied, replied the landlady, and two bedrooms on the top floor. Are there any children? No, said Jones. I came down here alone for a holiday. May I see the rooms? She took him to the top-front bedroom first. It was clean and tidy, just like herself, and gave a cheery view of the shopfronts on the opposite side of the street. Jones, looking out of the window, saw something that held him for a moment fascinated and forgetful of his surroundings and his companion. Hoover, no less, walking hurriedly and accompanied by a man who looked like a gardener. They were passing towards the sea, looking about them as they went. Hoover had the appearance of a person who has lost a purse or some article of value, so Jones thought as he watched them vanish. He turned to the landlady. I like this room, said he. It is cheerful and quiet, just the sort of place I want. Now let's see the parlor. The parlor boasted of a horse-hair sofa, chairs to match, pictures to match, and a glass-fronted bookcase containing volumes of the Sunday companion, sword and trowel, home influence, and weed as moths in the old yellow-back two-shilling edition. Very nice indeed, said Jones. What do you charge? Well, sir, said the landlady. Her name was Henshaw. It's a pound a week for the two rooms without board. Two pounds with. Any extras? asked the artful Jones. No, sir. Well, that will do me nicely. I came along here right from the station, and my portmanteau hasn't arrived, though it was labeled for here, and the porter told me he had put it on the train. I'll have to go up to the station this evening again to see if it has arrived. Meanwhile, seeing I haven't my luggage with me, I'll pay you in advance. She assured him that this was unnecessary, but he insisted. When she had accepted the money, she asked him what he would have for supper, or would he prefer late dinner? Supper, replied Jones. Oh, anything. I'm not particular. Then he found himself alone. He sat down in the horse-hair sofa to think. Would Hoover circularize his description and offer a reward? No, that was highly improbable. Hoover's was a high-class establishment. He would avoid publicity as much as possible. But he would be pretty sure to use the intelligence, such as it was, of the police, telling them to act with caution. Would he make inquiries at all the lodging houses? That was a doubtful point. Jones tried to fancy himself in Hoover's position and failed. One thing certainly Hoover would do. Have all the exits from Sanborn on Sea watched. That was the logical thing to do, and Hoover was a logical man. There was nothing to do but give the hunt time to cool off, and at this thought the prospect of days of lurking in this room of right angles and horse-hair-covered furniture rose up before him like a black billow. Then came the almost comforting thought. He could not lurk without creating suspicion on the part of Mrs. Henshaw. He would have to get out, somehow. The weather was glorious, and the strip of seaweed hanging by the mantle-piece dry as tender. A seaside visitor who sat all day in his room in the face of such weather would create a most unhealthy interest in the mind of any seaside landlady. No, whatever else he might do he could not lurk. The most terrible things in dramatic situations are the little things that speak to one for once in their lives. The pattern of the carpet that tells you that there is no doubt of the fact that your wife has run away with all your money and left you with seven children to look after, the form of the chair tells you that justice with a noose in her hand is waiting in the front doorstep. Jones, just now, was under the obsession of the picture of the room whose place was above the mantle-piece. It was an oleograph of a gentleman in uniform, probably the Prince Consort, correct, sane, urbane, a terrible comparison for a man in an insane situation, for insanity is not confined to the brain of man or its productions, though heaven knows she has a fine field of movement in both. A thundering rat-tat-tat at the hall door brought Jones to his feet. He heard the door answered, a voice outside saying, Thank you! and the door shut. It was some parcel left in. Then he heard Mrs. Henshaw descending the kitchen stairs and all was quiet. He turned to the bookcase, opened it, inspected the contents, and chose Moths. CHAPTER XXV. In ill health or convalescence, or worry or tribulation, the ordinary mind does not turn to Milton or Shakespeare, or even to the sermons of Charles Haddon Spurgeon. There are few classics that will stand the test of a cold in the head, or a fit of depression, or a worrying husband, or a minor tragedy. Here the writer of light fiction stands firm. Jones had never been a great reader, he had read a cheap novel or two, but his browsings in the literary fields had been mainly confined to the uplands where the grass is improving. Color, poetry, and construction in fiction were unknown to him, and now he suddenly found himself on the beach at Truville. On the beach at Truville with Lady Dolly skipping before him in the sea. He had reached the forced engagement of the beautiful heroine to the wicked Russian prince when the door opened and the suppertree entered, followed by Mrs. Henshaw. Left to honor and her own initiative she had produced a huge lobster, followed by cheese, and three little dull-looking jam tarts on a willow patterned plate. When Jones had ruined the lobster and devoured the tarts he went on with the book. The lovely heroine had become for him Teresa Countess of Rochester, the opera singer himself, and the Russian prince Manilov. Then the deepening dusk tore him from the book. Work had to be done. He rang the bell, told Mrs. Henshaw that he was going to the railway station to see after his luggage, took his cap, and went out. Strangely enough he did not feel nervous. The first flurry had passed, and he had adapted himself to the situation, the deepening darkness gave him a sense of security, and the lights of the shops cheered him somehow. He turned to the left towards the sea. Fifty yards down the street he came across a gentleman's outfitters, in whose windows coloured neckties screamed, and fancy shirts raised their discordant voices with gents summer waistcoats and those Panama hats adored in the year of this story by the river and seaside youth. Jones, under the hands of Rochester's valet, and forced by circumstances to use Rochester's clothes, was one of the best dressed men in London. Left to himself in this matter he was lost. He had no idea of what to wear or what not to wear, no idea of the social damnation that lies in tweed trousers not turned up at the bottom, fancy waistcoats made evening ties, a bowler worn with a black morning coat, or dog-skin gloves. Heinenberg and Oberman of Philadelphia had dressed him till Stoltz unconsciously took the business over. He was barely conscious of the incongruity of his present get-up topped by the tweed shooting cap of Hoover's, but he was quite conscious of the fact that some alteration in dress was imperative as a means towards escape from Sanborn on sea. He entered the shop of Toller and Simkinson, bought a six-and-eleven-penny Panama, put it on, and had the tweed cap done up in a parcel. Then a flannel coat attracted him, a gray flannel tennis coat priced fifteen shillings. It fitted him to a charm, save for the almost negligible fact that the sleeves came down nearly to his knuckles. Then he bought a night-shirt for three-and-eleven and had the whole lot done up in one parcel. At a chemist's next door he bought a toothbrush. In the mirror across the counter he caught a glimpse of himself in the Panama. It seemed to him that not only had he never looked so well in any other headgear, but that his appearance was completely altered. Charmed and comforted, he left the shop. Next door to the chemist's and at the street corner was a public house. Jones felt certain from his knowledge of Hoover that the very last place to come across one of his assistants would be a public house. He entered the public bar, took a seat by the counter, and ordered a glass of beer and a packet of cigarettes. The place was rank with the fumes of cheap tobacco and cigarettes and the smell of beer. Hard gas light showed no adornment, nothing but pitch-pine panelling, spatoons, bottles on shelves, and an almanac. The barmaid, a long-necked girl with red hands and cheap rings and a rose in her belt, detached herself from earnest conversation with the youth in a bowler inhabiting the saloon bar, pulled a handle, dumped a glass of beer before Jones, and gave him change without word or glance, returning to her conversation with the bowlered youth. She evidently had no eyes at all for people in the public bar. There are grades even in the tavern. Close to where Jones had taken his seat was standing a person in broken shoes, an old straw hat, a coat, with parcels evidently in the tail pockets, and trousers frayed at the heels. He had a red, unshaven face and was reading the evening courier. Suddenly he banged the paper with the tips of the fingers of his right hand and casted on the counter. Government! Government! Nice sort of government, paying each other four hundred a year for following Askwith and robbing the landowners to get the money. God-lummy! He paused to light a filthy clay pipe. He had his eyes on Jones and evidently considered him, for some occult reason, of the same way of political thinking as himself, and he addressed him in that impersonal way in which one addresses an audience. They've downed and outed the house of lords, and now they're scragging the Welsh Church. After that they'll go for the landed proprietor and finish them. And who's to blame? The radicals? No, they ain't to blame. No more than rats for their instincts. We're to blame. The Conservatives is to blame. We haven't got a fighting man to protect us. The radicals has got all the talent. You look at the fight Bon Allure's been making this week. Fight! A blind tomcat with his head in an old tomato tin would make a better fight than Bon Allure's put up. Look at Churchill. That chap was one of us once. He was born to lead the classes. And now look at him leading the masses, up to his neck in radical dirt and pretend and he likes it. He doesn't, but he's a man with an eye in his head, and he knows what we are, a boneless lot without organization. I say it myself. I said it was only last night in this here bar, and I say it again. For two pins I'd chuck my party. I would, so. For two pins I'd chuck the country and leave the whole lot to stew in their own grease. He addressed himself to his beer and Jones, greatly marveling, lit a cigarette. Do you live here? asked he. Should think I did, replied the other. Born here and bred here, and been watching the place going down for the last twenty years, turning from a decent residential neighborhood to a collection of schools and lodging houses. Losing Clarks every year. Why the biggest house here is owned by a chap that sells patent food. There's two socialists on the town council, and the mayor last year was Hoover, a chap that owns a lunatic asylum. One of his loonies got out last March and near did for a child on the Southgate road before he was collared. And yet they make a mayor of him. Have another drink, said Jones. I don't mind if I do. Well, here's Luck, said he, putting his nose into the new glass. Luck, said Jones. Do Hoover's lunatics often escape? Escape? why I heard only an hour ago another of them was out. God help him if the town folk catch him in any of his tricks, and God help Hoover. A chap has no right coming down and setting up a business like that in a place like this, full of nursemaids and children. People bring their innocent children down here to play on the sands, and any minute that place may break loose like a bum shell. That's not marked down on the prospectusies they publish with pictures done in blue and yaller, and lies about the air and water, and the salubriarity of the south coast. No, I suppose not, said Jones. Well, I must be going, said the other, emptying his glass and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Good night to you. Good night. The upholder of church and state shuffled out, leaving Jones to his thoughts. Wind of the business had got about the town, and even at that moment, no doubt, people were carefully locking back doors and looking in outhouses. It was unfortunate that the last man to escape from the Hoover establishment had been violently inclined. That was the one thing needed to stimulate rumor and make her spread. Having sat for ten minutes longer and consumed another glass of tepid beer, he took his departure. Mrs. Henshaw let him in, and having informed her of his journey to the station, the fruitlessness of his quest, and his opinion of the railway company, its servants and its methods, he received his candle and went to bed. CHAPTER XXVI A TRAMP AND OTHER THINGS. He was awakened by a glorious morning, and looking out of his window, he saw the street a stir in the sunshine, stout men in white flannels with morning newspapers in their hands, children already on their way to the beach with spades and buckets, all the morning life of an English sea-coast town in summer. Then he dressed. He had no razor, his beard was beginning to show, and to go about unshaved was impossible to his nature. For a moment the wild idea of letting his beard grow, that oldest form of disguise, occurred to him, only to be dismissed immediately. A beard takes a month to grow. He had neither the time nor the money to do it, nor the inclination. At breakfast, two kippered herrings and marmalade, he held a council of war with himself. Nature has equipped every animal with means for offense and defense. To man she has given daring, and that strange indifference in cold blood to danger, when danger has become familiar, which seems the attribute of man alone. Jones determined to risk everything, go out, prospect, find some likely road of escape, and to make a bold dash. The eight thousand pounds in the London Bank shone before him like a galaxy of eight stars. No one knew of its existence. What he was to do when he had secured it was a matter of for future consideration. Probably he would return right away to the States. One great thing about all this Hoover business was the fact that it had freed him from the haunting dread of those terrible sensations of duality and negation. Fighting is the finest antidote to nerve troubles and mental dreads. And he was fighting now for his liberty, for the fact stood clearly before him that whether the Rochester family believed him to be Rochester or believed him to be Jones, it was to their interest to hold him as a lunatic in peaceful retirement. Having breakfasted, he lit a cigarette, asked Mrs. Henshaw for a latch key so that he might not trouble her, put on his Panama and went out. There was a barbershop across the way. He entered it, found a vacant chair, and was shaved. Then he bought a newspaper and strolled in the direction of the beach. The idea had come to him that he might be able to hire a sailing boat and reach London that way. A preposterous and vague idea that still, however, led him till he reached the Esplanade and stood with the sea wind blowing in his face. The only sailing boats visible were excursion craft guarded by longshoremen, loading up with trippers and showing placards to allure the innocent. The sands were swarming and the bathing machines crawling towards the sea. He came on to the beach and took his seat on the warm white sands, with freedom before him had he been a gull or a fish. To take one of those cockle-shell row boats and scull a few miles down the coast would lead him—where? Only along the coast, rock strewn beyond the sands and faced with cliffs. Of boatcraft he had no knowledge, the sea was choppy, and the sailing boats now out seemed going like race-horses over hurdles. No, he would wait till after luncheon, then in that somnolent hour when all men's thoughts are a bit dulled and vigilant least awake, he would find some road on good hard land and make his dash. He would try and get a bicycle map of this part of Wessex. He had noticed a big stationers and booksellers near the beach, and he would call there on his way back. Then he felt a reading his paper, smoking cigarettes and watching the crowd. Watching he was presently rewarded with the sight of the present-day disgrace of England. Out of a bathing tent and into the full sunlight came a girl with nothing on, for skin-tight blue stockinette is nothing in the eyes of modesty. Every elevation, every depression, every crease in her shameless anatomy exposed to a hundred pairs of eyes she walked calmly towards the water. A young man to match followed. Then they wallowed in the sea. Jones forgot Hoover. He recalled Lady Dolly in moths. Lady Dolly, who on the beach of Sanborn on Sea would have been the pink of propriety, and the inhabitants of this beach were not wicked society people, but respectable middle-class folk. That's pretty thick, said Jones to an old gentleman like a goat sitting close to him, whose eyes were fixed in contemplation on the bathers. What? That girl in blue. Don't any of them wear decent clothes? The scraggie ones do, replied the other, speaking in a faraway and contented manner. At about half-past eleven Jones left the beach, tired of the glare and the bathers and the sand-digging children. He called at the bookshop, and for a shilling obtained a bicycle map of the coast, and sitting on a seat outside the shop scanned it. There were three roads out of Sanborn on Sea, the London Road, a road across the cliffs to the west, and a road across the cliffs to the east. The Easterly Road led to Northbourne, a seaside town some six or seven miles away. The Westerly Road to Southbourne, some fifteen miles off. London lay sixty miles to the north. The railway touched the London Road at Houghton Admiral, a station some nine miles up the line. That was the position. Should he take the London Road and board a train at Houghton Admiral, or take the road to Northbourne and get a train from there? The three ways lay before him like the three fates, and he determined on the London Road. However man proposes, and God disposes. He folded up the map, put it in his pocket, and started for home, or at least Mrs. Hemsha's. Just at the commencement of the street he paused before photographers to inspect the pictures exposed for view. Groups, family parties, children, and girls with undecided features. He turned from the contemplation of these things and found himself face to face with Hoover. Hoover must have turned into the street from a byway. For only sixty seconds before the street had been hooverless. He was dressed in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, and his calves showed huge. Hello! said Jones. The exclamation was ejected from him, so to speak, by the mental shock. Hoover's hand shot out to grasp his prey. What happened then was described by Mr. Schantz, the German draper across the way, to a friend. The thin man hit Mr. Hoover in the stomach, who sat down, but lifted himself at once and pursued him. Jones ran. After him followed a constable, sprung from nowhere. Boys, a dog that seemed running for exercise, and Hoover. He reached the house of Mrs. Henshaw, pulled the latch key from his pocket, plunged it in the lock, opened the door, and shut it. So close was the pursuit on him that the bang-bang of the knicker followed at once on the bang of the door. Then the bell went, peel after peel. Jones made for the kitchen stairs and bolted down them, found a passage leading to the back door and disregarding the bewildered Mrs. Henshaw, who was coming out of the kitchen with her hands all over flour, found the back yard. A blank wall lay before him, another on the right and another on the left. The left and right walls divided the Henshaw back yard from the yards of the houses on either side. The wall immediately before him divided it from the back yard of a house in Minerva Terrace, which was parallel to the high street. Jones chose this wall. A tenantless dog kennel standing before it helped him, and next moment he was over, shaken up with a drop of twelve feet and facing a clothesline full of linen. He dived under a sheet and almost into the back of a broad woman hanging linen on a second clothesline, found the back door of the house, which the broad woman had left open, ran down a passage, up a kitchen stairs and into a hall. An old gentleman in list slippers, coming out of a room on the right, asked him what he wanted. Jones, recalling the affair later, could hear the old gentleman's voice and words. He did not pause to reply. He opened the hall door, and the next moment he was in Minerva Terrace. It was fortunately deserted. He ran to the left, found a byway and a terrace of artisan's dwellings, new, hideous, and composed of yellow brick. In front of the terrace lay fields. A gate in the hedge invited him. He climbed over it, crossed a field, found another gate which led him to another field, and found himself surrounded by the silence of the country. A silence pierced and thrilled by the songs of larks. Larks make the sea-lands of the south and east coast insufferable. One lark in a suitable setting, and for a while, is delightful. But twenty larks in all grades of ascent and descent, some near, some distant, make for melancholy. Jones crouched in a hedge for a while to get back his breath. He was lost. Roadmaps were not much used to him here. The larks insisted on that, jubilantly or sorrowfully according to the stage of their flight. Then something or someone immediately behind him on the other side of the hedge breathed a huge sigh, as if lamenting over his fate. He jumped up. It was a cow. He could sear through the brambles and smeller too, sweet as a Devonshire dairy. Then he sat down again to think and examine the map which he had fortunately placed in his pocket. The roads were there, but how to reach them was the problem, and the London Road to which he had pinned his faith was now impossible. It would be surely watched. He determined, after a long consultation with himself, to make for north-born, striking across the field straight ahead and picking up the cliff road somewhere on its course. He judged, and rightly enough, that Hoover would hunt for him, not along the coast, but inland. North-born was not the road to London, even though a train might be caught from north-born. The whole business was desperate, but this course seemed the least desperate way out of it. And he need not hurry. Speed would be of no avail in this race against fate. He took the money from his pocket and counted it. Out of the nine pounds he started with from Hoover's, there remained only five pounds, eleven and nine pence. He had spent as follows. Mrs. Henshaw, two pounds. Panama, six and eleven pence. Knight's shirt, three and eleven pence. Coat, fifteen shillings. Public house, ten shillings. Shave and newspaper, seven shillings. Road map, one shilling. Total, three pounds, eight shillings, three pence. He went over these accounts and checked them in his head. Then he put the money back in his pocket and started on his way across the fields. Despite all his worries this English country interested him. It also annoyed him. Fields, the size of pocket handkerchiefs, divided one from the other by monstrous hedges and deep ditches. To cross this country in a straight line one would want to be a deer or a bounding kangaroo. Gates, always at corners and always diagonal to his path, gave him access from one field to the other. Trees there were none. The English tree has an antipathy to the sea and keeps away from it. But the hedge has no sensitiveness of this sort. These hedges seem to love the sea to judge by their size. He was just in the act of clambering over one of the innumerable gates when a voice hailed him. He looked back. A young man in leggings, who had evidently been following him unperceived, raised a hand. Jones finished his business with the gate, and then, with it between him and the stranger, waited. He was well-dressed in a rough way, evidently a superior sort of farmer, and physically a person to be reckoned with. He was also an exceedingly cantankerous-looking individual. You know that you are trespassing, asked he, when they were within speaking distance. No, said Jones. Well, you are. I must ask you for your name and address, please. What on earth for? What harm am I doing in your old field? Jones had forgotten his position, everything, before the outrage on common sense. You are trespassing, that's all. I must ask you for your name and address. Now to Jones came the recollection of something he had read somewhere. A statement that in England there was no law of trespass in the country-places, and that a person might go anywhere to pick mushrooms or wild flowers, and no landlord could interfere so long as no damage was done. Don't you know the law, asked Jones? He recited the law accordingly to the unknown. The other listened politely. I ask you for your name and address, said he. Our lawyers will settle the other matter. Then anger came to Jones. I am the Earl of Rochester, said he, and my address is Carleton House Terrace, London. I have no cards on me. Then the queerest sensation came to Jones, for he saw that the other had recognized him. Rochester was evidently as well known to the ordinary Englishman, by picture and repute, as Lloyd George. I beg your pardon, said the other, but the fact is that my land is overrun with people from Sandborne. Sorry. Oh, don't mention it, replied the Earl of Rochester. I shan't do any damage. Good day! They parted, and he pursued his way. A mile farther on he came upon a person with broken boots, a beary face, and clothes to match his boots. This person was seated in the sunshine under a hedge, a bundle and a tin can beside him. He hailed Jones as Governor and requested a match. Jones supplied the match and they fell into conversation. Northbourne, said the tramp, I'm going that way myself. I'll show you the quickest way when I've had a suck at me pipe. Jones rested for a moment by the hedge whilst the pipe was lit. The trespass business was still hot in his mind. The cave-in of the landlord had not entirely removed the sense of outrage. Aren't you afraid of being held up for trespass? asked he. Trespass! replied the other. Not me. I ain't a fear of no farmers. Jones gave his experience. Don't you be under no bloom and error, said the tramp, when the recital was finished? That chap was right enough. That chap couldn't touch the likes of me unless he lied and swore I'd broke fences. But he could touch the likes of you. I know the law. I know it, in and out. Landlords don't know it as well as me. That chap knows the law, else he wouldn't have been so keen on getting your name and where you lived. But how could he have touched me if he cannot touch you? The tramp chuckled. I'll tell you, said he, and I'll tell you what he'll do now he's got where you live. He'll go to the court of chancery and ask for a junction against you to stop you going over his fields. You don't want to go over his fields anymore. That don't matter. He'll get his junction and you'll have to pay the bloom and cost. See? The bloom and cost. And what will that amount to? God knows. Maybe a hundred pound. Lots of folks take it into their silly heads they can go where they want. They can't, not if the landlord knows his law, not unless they're hoofin' it like me. Lotta use bringin' me up to their court of chancery. Do you mean to say that just for walking over a field a man can be had up to the court of chancery and find a hundred pounds? He ain't find. It's took off him and cost. You seem to know a lot about the law, said Jones, calling up the man of the public house last night, and coming to the conclusion that amongst the English lower orders there must be a vast fund of a peculiar sort of intelligent. Yes, said the tramp. I told you I did. Then, interestingly, what might your name be? Jones repeated the magic formula to see the effect. I am the Earl of Rochester. Lord Rochester, thought I knew your face. Lost half a quid over your horse runnin' at Gatwood Park last spring, twelve months. White Lady came in second to the nun, half a quid. I'd made a bid on champagne bottle in the cellin plate. Run me eye over the lists and picked out White Lady. Didn't know nothin' about her, said to a friend. Here's my fancy. Don't know nothin' about her, but she's one of Lord Rochester's, and his horse has run straight. That's what I said. His horse has run straight, and give me a straight run, boss, with a wooden leg, before any of your fliers with a dope in his belly or a pullin' jockey on his back. But the grown ditter, she was beat in the post by half a neck. You'll remember. She'd a won me two lengths, only for that bit of soggy ground be the post. That ground wand over Holland, half a shower of rain, and boss wants fins and flippers instead of hoofs. Yes, said Jones. That's so. A few barrel-loads of gravel would put it right, continued the other. It ain't fair on the Hosses, and it ain't fair on the backers. Are for quid I dropped in that mucky bit of ground. Last Don Caster meetin' I was sayin' the very same thing to Lore Lonsdale over the Don Caster course. I met him, man to man like, outside the ring, and he handed me out a cigar. We talked, same as you and me might be talkin' now, and I says to him, What we want's more money put into drains on the courses. Look at them mucky farmers, the way they drains their land, said I. And look at us runnin' Hosses and layin' our bets and let down, Hosses and backers and all, for want of the courses bein' looked after proper. He tapped the doddle out of his pipe, picked up the bundle, and rose, grumbling. Then he led the way in the direction of Northbourne. It was a little after three o'clock now, and the day was sultry. Jones, despite his other troubles, was vastly interested in his companion. The height of Rochester's position had never appeared truly till shown him by the farmer in this tramp. They knew him. To them, without any doubt, the philosophers and poets of the world were unknown, but they knew the Earl of Rochester, and not unfavorably. Millions upon millions of the English world were equally acquainted with his lordship. He was most evidently a national figure. His unconventionality, his larks, his lavishness, and his horse-racing propensities, however they might pain his family, would be meat to the legions who loved a lord, who loved a bet, who loved a horse, and a picturesque spendthrift. To be Rochester was not only to be a lord, it was more than that. It was to be famous, a national character, whose picture was printed on the retina of the million. Never had Jones felt more inclined to stick to his position than now, with the hounds in his traces, a tramp for his companion, and darkness ahead. He felt that if he could once get to London, once lay his hands on that eight thousand pounds lying in the National Provincial Bank, he could fight, fight for freedom, get lawyers to help him, and retain his phantom coronet. He had ceased to fear madness. All that dread of losing himself had vanished, at least for the moment. Hoover had cured him. Meanwhile they talked as they went, the tramp laying down the law as to rights over commons and wastelands, seeming absolutely to forget that he was talking to, or supposed to be talking to, a landed proprietor. At last they reached the white ribbon that runs over the cliffs from Sanborn to Northbourne and beyond. Here's the road, said the tramp, and I'll be taken leave of your lordship. I'll take it easy for a bit amongst them bushes. There's no call for me to hurry. I shan't forget meeting your lordship. Bly me if I will. Me, sitting there under that hedge and thinking of that half-quid I dropped over white lady, and your lordship coming along, it gets me. Up to this moment of parting he had not once lordshipped Jones. Jones, feeling in his pocket, produced the half-sovere, which, with five pounds one and nine pence, made up his worldly wealth at the moment. He handed it over, and the tramp spat on it for luck. Then they parted, and the fugitive resumed his way with a lighter pocket, but a somewhat lighter heart. There are people who increase, and people who reduce one's energy. It is sometimes enough to look at them without even talking to them. The tramp belonged to the former class. He had cheered Jones. There was nothing particularly cheery in his conversation, all the same the effect had been produced. Now along the cliff-road, and coming from the direction of Northbourne, a black speck developed, resolving itself at last into the form of an old man carrying a basket. The basket was filled with apples and bainbury cakes. Jones bought eight bainbury cakes and two apples with his one and nine pence, and then took his seat on the warm turf by the way to devour them. He lay on his side as he ate, and cursed Hoover. To lie there for an hour on this idyllic day, to watch the white gulls flying, to listen to the whisper of the sea far below, what could be better than that? He determined if ever he should win freedom and money to return here for a holiday. He was thinking this when, raised now on his elbow, he saw something moving amongst the bushes and long grass of the wastelands bordering the cliff-road. It was a man, a man on all fours, yet moving swiftly, a sight natural enough in the deer-stalking highlands, but uncanny on these wessex downs. Jones, leaving four bainbury cakes uneaten on the grass, sprang to his feet, so did the crawling one. Then the race began. The pursuer was handicapped. Any two sides of a triangle are longer than the third. A right line towards Jones would save many yards, but the going would be bad on account of the brambles and bushes. A straight line to the road would lengthen the distance to be covered, but would give a much better course when the road was reached. He chose the latter. The result was that when the race really started, the pursuer was nearly half a mile to the bad. But he had not recently consumed four bainbury cakes and two apples. Super bainbury cakes of the dear old days, when margarine was nine pence a pound, flour unlimited, and currants unsought after by the wealthy. Jones had not run for years, and in this connection it is quite surprising how society pursues a man once he gets over the barrier, and especially when he has to run for his liberty. The first mile was bad. Then he got his second wind handed to him, despite everything, by a fair constitution and a fairly respectable life, but the pursuer was now only a quarter of a mile behind. Up to this the course had been clear with no spectators. But now came along from the direction of Northbourne an invalid on the arm of an attendant, and behind them a boy on a bicycle. The bicycle was an inspiration. It was also yellow painted and bore a carrier in front, blazoned with the name of a Northbourne Italian warehouseman. It contained parcels evidently intended for one of the few bungalows that strewed the cliff. The boy fought to defend his master's property briefly, but still he fought, till a happy stroke in the wind laid him on the sun-warm turf. The screams of the invalid, it was a female, sounded in the ears of Jones like part of some fantastic dream, so seemed the bicycle. It had no bell, the saddle wanted raising at least two inches, still it went and the wind was behind. On the right was a sheer drop of two hundred feet, and the road here skirted the cliff edge murderously close, for the simple reason that cliff falls had eaten the bordering grass to within a few feet of the road. This course on an unknown and questionable bicycle laden with parcels of tea and sugar was open to a good many objections. They did not occur to Jones. He was making good speed, or thought he was, till the long declivity leading to Northbourne was reached. Here he began to know what speed really was, for he found on pressing the lever that the brake would not act. Fortunately it was a free wheel. This declivity runs between detached villas and stone walls, sheltering prim gardens right on to the west end of the Esplanade, which is, in fact, a continuation of it. For the first few hundred yards Jones thought that nothing could go quicker than the houses and walls rushing past him towards the end he was not thinking. The Esplanade opened out, a happy band of children with buckets and wooden spades returning home to tea, opened out, gave place to rushing apartment houses with green balconies on the left, rushing seascape and bathing machines on the right. Then the speed slackened. He got off shaking and looked behind him. He had reached the east end of the promenade. It lay, as it always lies, towards five o'clock, absolutely deserted by visitors. In the distance, and just stepped out of a newspaper kiosk, a woman was standing, shading her eyes and looking towards him. Two boatmen near her were looking in the same direction. They did not seem excited, just mildly interested. At that moment appeared in the long slope leading down to the Esplanade, the figure of a man running. He looked like a policeman, a seaside policeman. Jones did not pause to verify. He propped the bicycle against the rails of a verandahouse and ran. The Esplanade at this, the eastern end, ascends to the town by a zigzag road. As he took this ascent, the mind of Jones, far from being clouded or dulled, was acutely active. It saw that now the railway station of Northbourne was out of count. Flight by train was impossible, for the station was the very first place that would be watched. The coastline, to judge by present results, was impossible, for it seemed that to keep to it he might go on forever being chased till he reached Johnna Grotes. Northbourne is the twin image of Sanbourne on sea, the same long high street, the same shops with blinds selling the same wares, the same trippers, children with spades and invalids. The two towns are rivals, each claiming the biggest brass band, the longest Esplanade, the fewer deaths from drowning, the best drains, the most sunlight, and the swiftest trains from London. Needless to say that one of them is not speaking the truth, a fact that does not seem to disturb either of them in the least. Jones, walking swiftly, passed a seaside boot shop of butchers, greengrocers, and Italian warehouse, the same, to judge by the name over the door, that had sent forth the messenger boy and the bicycle. Then came a cinema palace, with huge pictures splashed across with yellow bands announcing to-night. Then a milliner's, then a post office, and lastly a livery stable. In front of the ladder stood a Chara Bank nearly full. A blackboard announced in white chalk, two hours' drive, two shillings, and the congregation in the Chara Bank had that stamp, stout women, children, a weedy man or two, and a honeymoon couple. Jones, without the slightest hesitation, climbed into the Chara Bank. It seemed sent by heaven. It was a seat, it went somewhere, and it was a hiding place. Seated amongst these people, he felt intuitively that a viewless barrier lay between him and his pursuers, that it was the very last place a man in search of a runaway would glance at. He was right. Whilst the Chara Bank still lingered on the chance of a last customer, the running policeman, he was walking now, appeared at the sea end of the street. He was a young man with a face like an apple. He wore a straw helmet. Northbourne serves out straw helmets for its police, and straw hats for its horses on the 1st of June each year, and he seemed blown. He was looking about him from right to left, but he never looked once at the Chara Bank and its contents. He went on, and round the corner of the street he vanished, still looking about him. A few moments later the vehicle started. The contents were cheerful and communicative, one with the other, conversing freely on all sorts of matters, and Jones, listening despite himself, gathered all sorts of information on subjects ranging from the pictures then exhibiting at the Cinema Palace to the price of butter. He discovered that the contents consisted of three family parties, exclusive of the honeymoon couple, and that the appearance of universal fraternity was deceptive, that the parties were exclusive, the conversation of each being confined to its own members. So occupied was his mind by these facts that they were a mile and a half away from Northbourne and in the depths of the country, before a great doubt seized him. He called across the heads of the others to the driver, asking where they were going to. Sandborn on sea, said the driver. Now, though the Sandbornites hate the Northburnites, as the gelts, the jibbolines, though the two towns are at advertised mental war, the favorite pleasure-drive of the Chara Banks of Sandborn is to Northbourne and vice versa. It is chosen simply because the road is the best there about, and the gradients the easiest for the horses. Sandborn on sea, cried Jones. Yes, said the driver. The vision of himself being carted back to Sandborn on sea with that crowd, and then back again to Northbourne, if he were not caught, appeared to Jones for the moment as the last possible grimace of fate. He struggled to get out, calling to the driver that he did not want to go to Sandborn. The vehicle stopped, and the driver demanded the full fare, two shillings. Jones produced one of his sovereigns, but the man could not make change, neither could any of the passengers. I'll call at the livery-stables as I go back, said Jones, and pay them there. Where are you staying in the town? asked the driver. Belinda Villa, said Jones. It was the name of the villa against whose rails he had left the bicycle. The idiocy of the title had struck him vaguely at the moment, and the impression had remained. Mrs. Cass? Yes. Mrs. Cass is empty. This unfortunate condition of Mrs. Cass did not floor Jones. She was yesterday, said he, but I have taken the front parlor and a bedroom this afternoon. That's true, said a fat woman. I saw the gentleman go in with his luggage. In any congregation of people you will always find a liar ready to lie for fun, or the excitement of having a part in the business on hand. Failing that, a person equipped with an imagination that sees what it pleases. This amazing statement of the fat woman almost took Jones' breath away, but there are other people in a crowd beside liars. Why can't the gentleman leave the sovereign with the driver and get the change in the morning? asked one of the weedy-looking men. This scarecrow had not said a word to anyone during the drive. He seemed born of mischance to live for that supreme moment, diminish an honest man's ways of escape, and wither. Jones withered him. You shut up, said he. It's no affair of yours, cheek. Then to the driver. You know my address. If you don't trust me, you can come back with me and get change. Then he turned and walked off whilst the vehicle drove on. He waited till a bend of the road hit it from view, and then he took to the fields on the left. He had still the remains of the packet of cigarettes he had bought at Sandborne, and having crossed four or five gates, he took his seat under a hedge and lit a cigarette. He was hungry. He had done a lot of work on four Banbury cakes and an apple. End of Chapter 26 Recording by Roger Molleen