Hector Graeme

by Evelyn Brentwood

  *CHAPTER XXIV*

  A wild December morning was breaking over the great British camp.Masses of storm-cloud swept overhead, the wind howled, and gusts of rainand sleet beat against the black streaming tents. In the broad lanesand square parade grounds, deep in mud and patched with rapidly-wideningpools, arms and accoutrements could be seen lying, thrown down by theirowners, and left to rot and rust at will.

  Some distance away from the camp rose a cluster of huge marquees, theirflags of white marked with the red cross of Geneva proclaiming them tobe the field hospital, and towards them, phantom-like in the drearhalf-dark of morning, an apparently never-ending procession was moving.Swaying ambulance waggons and creaking litters--their canvas bottomsred-stained and dripping--toiled through the slush of the road, theirpath impeded by a throng of limping, maimed, and cursing pedestrians.

  The heart of Surgeon-General Macpherson, standing at the main entranceof the hospital, grew heavy as he watched, and his face dark with shameand grief, for never before in a life of more than sixty years had heseen a sight like this.

  "Poor old England," he muttered, "you're done at last," and thensuddenly his spare form stiffened, and his lips twisted into a smile,for a young officer was approaching; and to Macpherson, and such as he,the maintaining of a stiff upper lip before juniors is a rule of lifenever to be forgotten, no matter how imminent and certain disaster.

  "Hullo, Newton," he said, "what's the matter with you now? Can't havethe A.D.C.'s going sick, you know, or who's to run the army?"

  "I'm all right, sir," answered the new-comer, touching his cap; "it'snot about myself I've come to see you, but Lord Harford, Sir Archibaldwants to know how he is."

  Macpherson looked away, for despite his efforts the mask for a secondhad slipped, though this was the question he had known was coming, andone which would have to be answered, not once, but many times that day.At that moment he would have given the half of his small worldlypossessions to be no longer Surgeon-General Macpherson, PrincipalMedical Officer to the British Forces, but instead a juniorofficer--nay, even a private soldier--in one of his beloved Highlandregiments. Still, there was no use burking it, and he answered:

  "Lord Harford died two hours ago, Newton; he was shot through the lungs;there was no chance of saving him from the first."

  The boy's face fell, and an expression of dismay, almost of terror, wasdisplayed on it.

  "Dead," he repeated, "the Commander-in-Chief dead? Good God, sir, whatan utter damnable mess we're in!"

  Macpherson made no answer, for of a truth there was none to be made.They were in a mess, such a one as probably no British army had been inbefore, save perhaps in the earlier days of the Peninsular War. Then,however, a great leader was there to guide them, one in whom alltrusted, but now it seemed that there was no one, for he in whose handstheir destiny had lain was dead. For the great war that had beenprophesied for years past by countless Cassandras had come upon Englandat last, and as always, prophecies as to its course and method had beentotally false. A guarding fleet, the Balaams had declared, lured away,then the horrors of invasion, the enemy successful at first, but in theend gloriously repulsed, the British lion having awakened from hisslumbers. But here there had been no invasion--at least, not on theenemy's part--nor any thought of such yet, though a hundred thousandcitizens, with guns and uniform, designated the Hearts of Oak--onceknown as the Territorials, before then as the Volunteers--were waitingon the coasts to receive them, patriotic rage inflaming their breasts.No, the fleet had not been decoyed away, or destroyed; on the contrary,it had done its work right well, and what remained of the enemy's fleetwas now safely shut up in blockaded ports.

  Then a strange thing happened, and yet perhaps not strange, but ascertain to take place as the sun to shine in the heavens--Englandherself determined to invade.

  What does our Army exist for? This is the question invariablypropounded to a listening House by the merchant, lawyer, or doctor onappointment to the charge of Army fortunes, and equally invariablyanswered in accordance with party dictates, which demand at all costsretention in Office. Not for aggression, most emphatically not, heshouts, but for defence, and this being so, large numbers are but auseless expense and conscription an unnecessary hardship. Never canthere be any question of England's invading a Continental or otherpower, he goes on to declare, and party dogs and Little Englandersbow-wow applause, and a slothful country smiles well pleased.

  In this, as in many other political matters, he lies, for an army existsto fight whenever and wherever it is called upon so to do, and themilitary history of our own and other island nations is a story ofsuccessful invasion--from Crecy to South Africa it is one and the samestory. For history, as the record of human nature, can never lie, andmust always repeat itself, and a nation, unless degenerate, demands thestriking of blows, not the mere waiting to receive them. And soEngland, flushed with success, began to seethe and clamour for more; butalas, of the Army there was only a handful, and the Hearts of Oak, byspecial decree, existed merely for defence against invasion.

  A deadlock ensued, and Europe began to laugh. Under the sting of itslaughter fury arose, and with it clamorous demands for an expedition,the greater now, because the balance was beginning to fall againstEngland. The enemy had annexed countries she was bound by treaty todefend, and with a lengthy coastline thus secured, was hard at itbuilding warships and repairing those disabled. It was but a question ofmonths now, and England's fleet would be overwhelmed by numbers.

  The fury increased, mass meetings were held, and the Government rockedwhere it sat. Expedition or resignation was demanded. Naturally theformer won, and a special decree was passed by which the Hearts of Oakbecame liable for Service abroad. In vain they protested, desertedeven; it was all no good, for public sympathy was against them, and in afew weeks a heterogeneous force of soldiers, sailors, and Hearts of Oakwas packed on transports and sailed away to war.

  In chief command was Lord Harford, a man of remarkable ability as anorganiser, though notoriously deficient as a leader in the field, andassisting him as Chief of the Staff was Sir Thomas Moleyns, also a manof ability. His talents, however, were not those of a soldier, butrather of a political intriguer, his present eminence being mainly owingto the assistance given by him to the War Minister in a recentdifficulty connected with the public discovery of a shortage ofGovernment stores.

  He was a strong, pushing person, however, and fully meant having thecontrol of the present expedition, an aim which the age and infirmitiesof the Commander-in-Chief rendered comparatively easy of attainment.Contrary to expectation, the landing of the army was unopposed, and,that having been carried through without a hitch, the force marched onunmolested for three days, the few hostile cavalry scouts met withinvariably retiring before its advance.

  Almost it seemed as though the enemy invited invasion, which indeed wasthe case, it having exceeded their most sanguine expectations, andconsequently the strictest orders had been issued to allow the Britishto come on unopposed till well out of reach of their ships.

  At home, however, this was not realised, and the news of the successfuldebarkation aroused much enthusiasm. An unopposed occupation of thecapital was now confidently predicted, and preparations were already inprogress, and festivities organised to celebrate the event.

  Their joy was but short-lived, the next news to hand being that of acrushing disaster.

  On the morning of the fourth day, the march was suddenly brought to ahalt by the tidings of a large force in position on a wooded ridgeahead, completely barring the road by which they were moving to thenorth. To the same message was added another to the effect that GeneralSir Hector Graeme, commanding the cavalry division, had taken overcharge of the advanced guard, and was now preparing to attack. Thishaving been telephoned on to Moleyns, he at once directed General Graemeto desist from his preparations, and, further, to recall all hisadvanced scouts and patrols. His ostensible object in so doing was tolull the enemy i
nto security; his real one being the determination tothwart a man for whom he had a whole-hearted dislike, and also, shouldthings go wrong, the securing of a scapegoat on whom he could lay theblame.[#] Moleyns was a far-seeing man, and he knew, moreover, thatGraeme's downfall would be most gratifying in high places, particularlyto his friend and patron, Mr. Quibble, a Manchester solicitor, at thattime Secretary of State for War.

  [#] This, it may be remarked, was a scheme played with success on manyoccasions by generals during the time of the South African War.

  This message sent, Moleyns issued orders for the advanced guard to fallback on the main body, the whole army being further directed to camp onemile north of the village of Rass. This done, and plans drawn up anddespatched to the various divisions, he sought out Lord Harford, whom hefound seated in a motor car some miles in rear, and propounded a schemefor attack to be carried out that night; and, as usual, he gained hispoint.

  Night came; the attack was made by a third of the whole force, theresult being a crushing defeat.

  Ignorant of the country, whole divisions went astray, and wanderedaimlessly about in the dark, and when eventually the bulk of the forcereached the place appointed, the night was suddenly illumined by theglare of searchlights and star shells, and a tempest of lead and ironburst upon the huddled mass. In vain did the foremost ranks turn tofly, the pressure from behind was too great, and though at last they didmanage to get away and stream back into camp in the small hours of themorning, it was as a rabble they reached it--a rabble, moreover, shornof at least half its numbers, the Commander-in-Chief himself beingmortally wounded by a chance bullet.

  This reverse by itself was bad enough, but worse still was the news sentin by the Cavalry leader--who, despite orders, had not withdrawn hispatrols, but instead sent out more and farther ahead--to the effect thata huge body of hostile troops was coming up from the north, while fromthe east another large column was rapidly advancing.

  Lieutenant Newton, therefore, A.D.C. to Sir Archibald Townsend, was butstating a fact in describing the situation as a "mess"; indeed, it wasconsiderable odds on the capture or annihilation of the British armywithin the next forty-eight hours.

  Meanwhile two other officers had joined the pair, bent on the sameerrand as the first. "Poor old Harford!" said one on hearing the news,"this is what comes of having an Office man as Chief of the Staff. Isuppose he'll run the show now. Lord help us! Who's the nominal head,though, it's your fellow, ain't it, Newton?"

  "No, it isn't, worse luck; it's Lieut.-General Sir Hector Graeme, betterknown as Mad Jack. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it, friendCaldwell."

  "Thank ye, Newton. I've no wish to be sick."

  "That's no way to speak of a general officer, Caldwell, let alone theCommander-in-Chief," said Macpherson, his rugged face red with anger."Man, but I've a devilish good mind to clap ye under arrest, SirArchibald's A.D.C. though ye be."

  "I beg your pardon, sir," answered Caldwell sullenly. "I shouldn't havesaid that, but my family and I have special reasons for hating thisGeneral Graeme."

  They were all silent; the new Commander-in-Chief's matrimonialdifferences were well known.

  "That may be, Caldwell," said Macpherson at last, "but those are privatematters, and best kept to yourself. Before me, at all events, ye'llkindly remember Sir Hector Graeme is your superior officer, and as suchto be spoken of with respect."

  "It's salvation this, a godsend, no less," said the third officer, whohitherto had taken no part in the conversation; "we'll be in the capitalin a week now." Everyone turned to stare at the speaker, a somewhatquaint-looking youth, with long hair and a uniform deviating from theregulation pattern.

  "And who may you be, young sir?" said Macpherson. "I thought I knew mostof the A.D.C.'s, but yours is a new face to me."

  "My name's Glover, sir; I'm Sir Hector's A.D.C. Hulbert went sick threedays ago, and I got his place."

  "Might have known it from his clothes and hair," muttered Caldwell."They all get like that; Hulbert was just the same. Pick it up fromhim, I suppose; even his orderlies look like Merry Andrews. Gad, if Iwere Commander-in-Chief, I'd soon----"

  "I beg yer pardon, Mr. Caldwell."

  "Nothing, sir. I should like to know, though, what Glover means bysalvation."

  "The man's quite right to stand up for his General, Caldwell."

  "It's not only because I'm that, sir," answered Glover, with suddenanimation, "it's because I, and all who have been under him, know whathe can do. Oh, I know it's said he's only fought against savageshitherto, but, all the same, savages though they were, the Mahongas weregiving us a pretty bad time till the Coney's Drift affair. Preciouslittle thanks he got for it too, only abuse from the Radicals, and thename of Butcher Graeme. It was a bloody business, I own, but that's hisway, and in my opinion the right way too. Anyhow, it finished the war;the Mahongas hadn't a kick left in them after that. There was his workin Georgistan, too----"

  "Tell us about the ghost, Glover," interrupted Newton, yawning.

  "Ghost, what do you mean, Newton?" asked Macpherson.

  "Surely you've heard the yarn, sir? General Graeme's supposed to keep atame spook, which he consults before fighting a battle. It's commontalk, sir; I thought everyone knew."

  Macpherson looked at Glover, despite himself, a Highlander's interest inthe subject gleaming in his eyes.

  "A lie, I suppose, like most of the gossip about him," he said. "Eh,Glover?" But the boy hesitated, at a loss what to say.

  "There's no ghost, sir," he said at length, "at least, neither I nor anyone else I know has seen it."

  "I should think not," broke in Caldwell, temper and prudence goingtogether. "The story's on a par with the rest of the humbug he and hisgang love to surround themselves with. Thank the Lord, I say, I'm onlya straightforward soldier's A.D.C., not a ruddy Jack o' the Green.Why... What the devil's up, Newton, seen the gho----?" He finished therest of the sentence inside his helmet, which an unseen hand hadsuddenly banged down over his eyes--Caldwell had become what is vulgarlyknown as "bonneted."

  "Jack o' the Green," he heard a harsh voice say. "Who calls the bloodyCommander-in-Chief a Jack o' the Green? Mutiny, mutiny! String him up,old Clan na Gael! Scots wha hae! Where's a rope?"

  With a wrench, Caldwell tore off the muffling headpiece, and stoodstaring, for before him, with his wild eyes gleaming through a shock ofgrey hair, stood the man of whom they had been speaking. On his headwas his usual white top-hat, a covering which no orders could induce himto discard, and bound around it a green scarf. A sheepskin coat, dyedred, hung on his wasted body, a common worsted muffler of orange andgreen was wound round his scraggy neck, the costume being completed bybreeches of yellow leather and long india-rubber boots. Sign oforthodox uniform there was none; indeed, had Sir Hector Graeme falleninto the enemy's hands in his present attire, his instant execution as acivilian in arms would have been amply justified by the rules governingmodern warfare.

  His had been a somewhat chequered career during the last fifteen years,short-lived bursts of fame alternating with lengthy periods ofobscurity. First brought into notice by the affair, already alluded to,at Coney's Drift, where, taking advantage of his senior's absence forthe day, he had collected such force as he could lay hands on, and withthem fallen on and practically annihilated the Mahongas' main army, hehad signalised his victory by such subsequent outspoken criticism of hissuperiors as had ensured his speedy supersession from further command.

  True, before this had happened, his promotion to the rank ofMajor-General had been wired out from home, but he was given plainly tounderstand that no further advancement would be his; and thenceforth, bymost, his military career was regarded as finished. So undoubtedly itwould have been, had not hostilities broken out five years later inGeorgistan, and, after a succession of reverses, the papers began toclamour for the despatch to the scene of General Graeme. For some timethe demand was ignored, but, the reverses continuing, he was eventuallysent out, and
entrusted with the command of the Lines of Communication,in which capacity it was thought he would have no chance of makinghimself conspicuous. Fortune, however, favoured Hector, in the shape ofa fierce attack on a post in which he happened to be resting for thenight, and not only did he repel that assault, but, following up theretiring enemy, completely routed them, although they were double hisstrength in numbers. Probably owing to the fact that this was the firstBritish success since the war's commencement, Hector's name, as asaviour, was blazoned forth on the placards of every evening paper, andso great became the clamour for his advancement that reluctantly theauthorities placed him in command of the cavalry division. Thisdivision--a failure hitherto--straightway began to harry and destroy,their movements being conducted with such energy and ferocity that in ashort time the mere sight of a horseman would send the Georgistanwarriors scuttling hurriedly away to their hills.

  For these services he was made Knight Commander of the Bath, and, on thetermination of the war, was given the command of one of the great IndianPresidencies. Here, however, disaster overtook him; for shortly afterhis appointment a certain member of the British Parliament made hisappearance, and proceeded to preach sedition to the natives living inHector's district. Graeme had been given the strictest orders torefrain from interfering with this person, and for some weeks he ignoredhis presence, though the effect of Mr. Belch's words on the ill-balancednative mind was daily becoming more apparent.

  Unfortunately for both, however, Hector one day happened to be walkingthrough the bazaar, accompanied by his A.D.C. and orderly, and, comingupon the orator haranguing the mob, stopped to listen. For some time hestood there, till at length the man perceived him, and, goaded to furyat the sight of his country's uniform, commenced a tirade not onlyagainst the army but against His Majesty the King. Now, devoid of mosthuman feelings as Hector was, being filled with an unreasoning hatredand contempt for his fellows, there was yet one contradictory trait inhis character, and that was a great veneration for his Sovereign.Hearing the King's name bawled forth in a native bazaar, he was seizedwith sudden rage, and moved forward. Calling on his A.D.C. and orderlyto follow him, he charged through the mob, and seizing the now terrifiedBelch, bore him to a shop hard by, where, with the aid of the other two,he proceeded to tar and feather him. Not till the work was thoroughlycompleted did he release the fellow, after which, thanks to a liberaluse of their fists, the three made their way through the crowd, andthough somewhat battered, reached home in safety.

  Thereupon ensued a lively time at Headquarters. Cable upon cable pouredin, some from individuals unknown to Hector, of a congratulatory nature,others from high quarters, demanding instant explanations. The formerhe tore up contemptuously--he had no wish for the approval of hisfellow-men--the latter he answered in a letter couched in officialterms, to the effect that, thanks to him, Mr. Belch being now quiteblack, was more wholly one with his friends; and as regarded thefeathering, that, he considered, improved the man's personal appearance.He concluded by announcing his intention of burning the native city, nowin an uproar.

  Further cables followed in quick succession, suspending, threatening,and finally entreating, but to no purpose. Hector continued hispreparations for destruction.

  At the eleventh hour His Majesty himself intervened. A telegram wasreceived making known his pleasure to Hector, whereupon he at onceordered the troops, already in position round the city, back tobarracks, and he himself started for England. Here he enteredParliament, where he soon became a very terror to the War Minister, amember of his own--nominal--party, exposing many things, and piercingthrough all shufflings and evasions. But his animosity was mainlydirected against the Territorial scheme--as it was then known--hiscrowning indiscretion being an address, delivered to a regiment of thesewarriors drawn up for inspection before the Mansion House.

  "My dear fellow," the War Minister had said to him some minutespreviously, "for goodness' sake give these chaps a pat on the back. Iknow you don't think much of them--nor, between ourselves, do I--but thecountry won't stand conscription, though we all know it's the onlything. For the Lord's sake remember your party--we're a bit dicky as itis--and say something civil."

  Whereupon Graeme spoke, his words being audible not only to those he wasaddressing, but also to the assembled crowd.

  "I've been asked to speak to you," he said, "and damme, I will. Listen,then. Soldiers I know, sailors I know, but you, you're neither flesh,fowl, nor good red herring. I give you my word one regiment of regularswould play the bloody bear with an Army Corps of such a scratch mob asyou. My friend Jampots here"--this in graceful allusion to the firm ofwhich the present War Minister was a member--"says he don't think muchof you, nor, begad, do I."

  This peroration completed, Graeme rode off, well pleased with himself,and his speech having been reported in every paper, the result was avote of censure on Jampots, a division in the House, and the subsequentdefeat of the Government.

  For Hector, for some strange reason--the stranger considering thecontempt he had for them--was beloved by the British public. The verySocialistic spirit of the age, which he abhorred, being almostreactionary in his own views, worked in his favour; for Hector wasalways at war with authority, and the hearts of the mob warmed to him asthey viewed his fierce battling with overwhelming odds. He made themlaugh too--a certain passport to their favour--and yet with thislaughter was mingled no contempt, his reckless bravery and constantbrilliant success forbade that. Added to which, there was much sympathyfelt towards him on account of his well-known marital differences, forthat Hector was responsible for them no one save the Caldwells and theirrelations believed. For the man, though notorious throughout theService for an outrageously blasphemous tongue, was yet renowned for hisaustere morality, whereas Lady Graeme was now one at whom a good manylooked askance. For in that way had Lucy taken her trouble, and fewwould have recognised in the full-busted, dyed-haired, and loud-voicedLady Graeme the modest country-loving Lucy of former days. Of herhusband she would talk openly, and as openly ridicule. "Mad Jackagain!" she would exclaim, to the crowd of boys always in attendance."Gracious, what a nuisance the man's getting! Give me a cigarette, likea dear, and talk of something else. You forget I lived with thetreasure for ten years, and, heavens, how bored I was!" And so, asusual, the least guilty received the blame, and Lucy, in men's eyes, wasthe sinner, and Hector the injured--liked the better for his injuries.

  Further--and probably this was the chief factor in their regard--therewas about Graeme an undefined element of mystery; the strange story ofthe ghost, derided by some but believed in by many, invested with aweird charm his successes, which, brilliant as they were, they wouldhave lacked without.

  All these things, together with his utter disregard of consequences tohimself, his obvious disinterestedness, and his contempt of partyshufflings, impressed the variable mob; and such an expression ofopinion as that uttered before the Mansion House completely damned theTerritorial scheme, and destroyed all public faith in the party then inpower. Graeme, however, did not seek re-election--he was already sickof the dirty political game--but proceeded on a tour round the world,from which he had returned but a few weeks before the declaration ofwar. Again the same attempt was made to ignore him--and this time it wasstronger then ever, for both parties were now against him--but thepublic would have none of it, and though the authorities refused thedemand for his appointment to the chief command, they so far yielded topressure as to give him the leadership of the two cavalry divisions,from the camp of which he had just arrived, unfortunately in time tohear Caldwell's last remark.

  "A hanging job this, Cockaleekie," he went on, looking around him;"where's a rope? Aha!" Then running to the marquee he drew a knifefrom his pocket, and cutting through one of the tent cords, returnedwith it in his hand to the now silent quartette.

  "Round his neck, so!"--fitting the noose over Caldwell's head as hespoke, and then tossing the other end over the bracket of an adjacentlamp-post--"Ready now? Soun
d the dead march then, whack your tummy forthe drum, old Mac; what the devil are you laughing at?" seeing abroadsmile on the surgeon's and Newton's faces. There was no smile on thefaces of Caldwell and Glover, however, but an expression of scorn on theone and terror on the other, for well Glover knew Hector Graeme, andalso Hector Graeme's idea of a joke.

  "Think I don't mean it?" he cackled. "Gad, I'll show you, then." Hedrew the rope tighter, but the boy never flinched, and his eyes nowexpressed hatred as well as scorn.

  "Sir," said Macpherson, his smile suddenly fading, "Caldwell was onlyjoking, very wrong, I own, but he's young, sir."

  The cord dropped from Graeme's hands.

  "What did you say his bloody name was?"

  "Caldwell, sir, General Belfield's A.D.C."

  A slash of the knife, and the rope lay in pieces on the ground.

  "Be off," he said, "cackle as much as you like, I won't touch you. It'sthe way you and the rest of the brood have been brought up. Go andchatter about your Commander-in-Chief, if you will; I've stood it foryears, and despise it. Clear!"

  Silently Caldwell saluted and went, and for a minute an awkward pausefollowed. Graeme stood looking after the retreating figure, and, thensuddenly throwing himself forward on to his hands, he turned a couple ofcartwheels and once more came back to the group.

  "What's the night's bag," he said, "a good un, ain't it, and mixed?"

  "I don't know yet for certain, sir," answered Macpherson. "There arefour generals killed, and close on seven thousand officers and meneither dead or wounded. The missing, of course, I don't count."

  "Hurrah! That'll make 'em sing _Rule Britannia_ at home; a jolly goodlesson to 'em, though they'll forget it in a year. Think we're going towin, Mac?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You don't, that drawn mug of yours gives you away, we shall, though.The old green-backs, yonder," waving his hand to the north, "are in fora hell of a hiding. Like my hat?" suddenly addressing the open-mouthedNewton.

  "N-no, sir."

  "Boil my lights," suddenly becoming furious, "d'ye hear that,MacSporran? He don't like my hat. Well, well, nor does Moleyns; andthat reminds me I'm due at the talking shop at nine. Holy trousers!"pulling out a frying pan of a watch, "half-past by my old chestprotector. Tra la! tra la!" and gathering up his skirts theCommander-in-Chief skipped nimbly over the rails guarding the hospitalentrance, and jumping on his horse galloped away to Headquarters, flakesof mud and sprays of dirty water flying around him.

  From the marquee behind a man emerged, his white apron and sleevessplashed with blood, and joined Macpherson, who was now alone, Gloverand Newton having ridden away together.

  "Morning, Sir George," said the P.M.O., turning to the new-comer;"pretty busy in there, aren't you? Gad, but the country ought to begrateful to you."

  "Bah!" said the latter, a famous London surgeon, now on self-imposedduty with the British expeditionary force, while a thousand patientswere left lamenting in town behind him.

  "Isn't that Sir Hector Graeme riding away?"

  "Yes."

  "Commander-in-Chief, now, isn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm one of his admirers, General."

  "So am I, Sir George."

  The other smiled--for an admirer, the speaker's voice was singularlyunenthusiastic.

  "I believe in the ghost too," Romford continued.

  The P.M.O. frowned, hesitated for a moment, and then spoke out. "Lookhere, Sir George, you're one of us, so there's no harm in you and mediscussing the question. Tell me what do you make of this ghostbusiness--epilepsy?"

  "Decidedly not--Graeme's no epileptic; nor were Joan of Arc, St. Paul,and other visionaries, as used to be supposed. That idea's exploded.An epileptic never remembers what he's seen in his seizures--they did."

  "What is it, then--mania?"

  "Nor that either. All that eccentricity, in my opinion, is only a pose,probably to attract attention. Diseased vanity's at the bottom of that,I should say; it's quite separate from the vision part--that's a form ofhysteria."

  "Purely physical, you think?"

  "Partly and partly metaphysical. I'll tell you my theory, if you like;it's my own, and probably worthless, but such as it is you can have it.It's this. In every human being there exists something--call it soul,call it subconscious self if you like--and that something, which I holdto be immortal, passes at death to another body. But in the majority,though it controls, it works underground, and is silent; in others,however--the abnormal--it makes itself heard, and at certain momentstakes charge and speaks; then we have what are called flashes of genius.A genius does not reason or think a matter out as we do. His ideas come,and are followed. And to my thinking they come not from the manhimself, but from his soul, endowed with the knowledge and experience ofthousands of years. That's what makes the characters and masterpiecesof poets and painters that were drawn ages ago true to present-day life.It is universal, not individual, human nature they describe."

  "But the visions--how do you account for them, a man can't see his ownsoul?"

  "Something or someone seen when the mind, from certain causes, isextraordinarily excited, and so it becomes indelibly photographed on themental vision; thenceforth, by a very natural sequence, the voice ofsubconscious self becomes that of the vision."

  "But I've always understood that these visions are only seenoccasionally."

  "Exactly, when the mind is in the same state as it was when theapparition first appeared, that can and usually is as the mental picturefades with physical powers, for delusion dies with or just before thebody, brought about by drugs or some other excitant to the nerves."

  "What for?"

  "Because he must have the vision to tell him what to do. It gives himthe inspiration, without which he's firmly convinced he cannot act--andhe couldn't."

  "But Graeme's not a drug-taker; he won't touch even a sleeping-draught,though ordered by a doctor; he smokes but little too, five cigarettes aday, never more."

  "What does he drink?"

  "He's a teetotaler, save for an occasional bottle of champagne. Hullo,Glover, what do you want?"

  "Sir Hector, sir, I forgot to give him his flask; here it is."

  In an instant Sir George had stretched out his hand, and coolly takingthe flask unscrewed the top, and put it to his nostrils. He then handedit to Macpherson, who did the same.

  "Hurry, Glover," said the P.M.O., "you'll catch him if you're quick,"and the boy galloped away, leaving the two looking at each other.

  "Good-day, General," said Romford at last; "I must get back to my work."