A man of understanding and parts, a man not to be deluded by specious wine lists, a generous warmhearted and full-blooded soul--and here he was.

A step sounded on the verandah, the window was pushed open and a man of forty years or so, well-dressed, tall, thin, dark and saturnine stood before the feaster.

He showed no surprise. Removing his hat he bowed.

Jones half rose.

"h.e.l.lo," said he confusedly, with his mouth full--then he subsided into his chair.

"I must apologise for being late," said the tall man, placing his hat on a chair, rubbing his long hands together and moving to the vacant seat.

"I was unavoidably detained. But I'm glad you did not wait supper."

He took his seat, spread his napkin on his knees, and poured himself out a gla.s.s of claret. His eyes were fixed on the sovereign lying upon the cloth. He had noted it from the first. Jones picked it up and put it in his pocket.

"That's right," said the unknown. Then as if in reply to a question: "I will have a wing, please."

Jones cut a wing of the fowl, placed it in the extra plate which he had placed on one side of the table and presented it. The other cut himself some bread, helped himself to salad, salt and pepper and started eating, absolutely as though nothing unusual had occurred or was occurring.

For half a minute or so neither spoke. Then Jones said:

"Look here," said he, "I want to make some explanations."

"Explanations," said the long man, "what about?"

Jones laughed.

"That sovereign which I put on the table and which I have put back in my pocket. I must apologise. Had I gone away before you returned that would have been left behind to show that your room had been entered neither by a hobo nor a burglar, nor by some cad who had committed an impertinence--perhaps you will believe that."

The long man bowed.

"But," went on Jones, "by a man who was driven by circ.u.mstances to seek hospitality without an invitation."

The other had suddenly remembered the ham and had risen and was helping himself, his pince-nez which he wore on a ribbon and evidently only for reading purposes, dangling against his waistcoat-b.u.t.tons.

"By circ.u.mstance," said he, "that is interesting. Circ.u.mstance is the master dramatist--are you interested in the Drama?"

"Interested!" said Jones. "Why, I _am_ a drama. I reckon I'm the biggest drama ever written, and that's why I am here to-night."

"Ah," said the other, "this is becoming more interesting still or promising to become, for I warn you, plainly, that what may appear of intense interest to the individual is generally of little interest to the general. Now a man may, let's say, commit some little act that the thing we call Justice disapproves of, and eluding Justice finds himself pressed by Circ.u.mstance into queer and dramatic positions, those positions though of momentary and intense interest to the man in question would be of the vaguest interest to the man in the stalls or the girls eating buns in the gallery, unless they were connected by that thread of--what shall we call it--that is the backbone of the thing we call Story."

"Oh, Justice isn't bothering after me," said Jones--Then vague recollections began to stir in his mind, that long glabrous face, the set of that jaw, that forehead, that hair, brushed back.

"Why, you're Mr. Kellerman, aren't you?" said he.

The other bowed.

"Good heavens," said Jones, "I ought to have known you. I've seen your picture often enough in the States, and your cinema plays--haven't read your books, for I'm not a reading man--but I've been fair crazy over your cinema plays."

Kellerman bowed.

"Help yourself to some cheese," said he, "it's good. I get it from Fortnum and Masons. When I stepped into this room and saw you here, for the first moment I was going to kick you out, then I thought I'd have some fun with you and freeze you out. So you're American? You are welcome. But just tell me this. Why did you come in, and how?"

"I came in because I am being chased," said Jones. "It's not the law, I reckon I'm an honest citizen--in purpose, anyhow, and as to how I came in I wanted a crust of bread and rang at your hall door."

"Servants don't sleep here," said Kellerman. "Cook snores, bungalow like a fiddle for conveying sounds, come here for sleep and rest. They sleep at a cottage down the road."

"So?" said Jones. "Well, getting no reply I looked in at the window, saw the supper, and came in."

"That's just the sort of thing that might occur in a photo play," said Kellerman. "When I saw you, as I stepped in, sitting quietly at supper the situation struck me at once."

"You call that a situation," said Jones. "It's bald to some of the situations I have been in for the last G.o.d knows how long."

"You interest me," said Kellerman, helping himself to cheese. "You talk with such entire conviction of the value of your goods."

"How do you mean the value of my goods?"

"Your situations, if you like the term better. Don't you know that good situations are rarer than diamonds and more valuable? Have you ever read Pickwick?"

"Yep."

"Then you can guess what I mean. Situations don't occur in real life, they have to be dug for in the diamond fields of the mind and--"

"Situations don't occur in real life!" said Jones. "Don't they--now, see here, I've had supper with you and in return for your hospitality I'll tell you every thing that's happened to me if you'll hear it. I guess I'll shatter your illusions. I'll give you a sample: I belong to the London Senior Conservative Club and yet I don't. I have the swellest house in London yet it doesn't belong to me. I'm worth one million and eight thousand pounds, yet the other day I had to steal a few sovereigns, but the law could not touch me for stealing them. I have an uncle who is a duke yet I am no relation to him. Sounds crazy, doesn't it, all the same it's fact. I don't mind telling you the whole thing if you care to hear it. I won't give you the right names because there's a woman in the case, but I bet I'll lift your hair."

Kellerman did not seem elated.

"I don't mind listening to your story," said he, "on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That you will not be offended if I switch you off if the thing palls and hand you your hat, for I must tell you that though I came down here to get sleep, I do most of my sleeping between two in the morning and noon. I work at night and I had intended working to-night."

"Oh, you can switch me off when you like," said Jones.

Supper being finished, Kellerman fastened the window, and, carrying the lamp, led the way to a comfortably furnished study. Here he produced cigars and put a little kettle on a spirit stove to make tea.

Then, sitting opposite to his host, in a comfortable armchair, Jones began his story.

He had told his infernal story so often that one might have fancied it a painful effort, even to begin. It was not. He had now an audience in touch with him. He suppressed names, or rather altered them, subst.i.tuting Manchester for Rochester and Birdwood for Birdbrook. The audience did not care, it recked nothing of t.i.tles, it wanted Story--and it got it.

At about one o'clock the recital was interrupted whilst tea was made, at two o'clock or a little after the tale finished.

"Well?" said Jones.

Kellerman was leaning back in his chair with eyes half closed, he seemed calculating something in his head.

"D' you believe me?"

Kellerman opened his eyes.