An African Millionaire: Episodes in the Life of the Illustrious Colonel Clay Page 3

  III

  THE EPISODE OF THE OLD MASTER

  Like most South Africans, Sir Charles Vandrift is anything butsedentary. He hates sitting down. He must always "trek." He cannotlive without moving about freely. Six weeks in Mayfair at a time isas much as he can stand. Then he must run away incontinently forrest and change to Scotland, Homburg, Monte Carlo, Biarritz. "Iwon't be a limpet on the rock," he says. Thus it came to pass thatin the early autumn we found ourselves stopping at the Metropoleat Brighton. We were the accustomed nice little family party--SirCharles and Amelia, myself and Isabel, with the suite as usual.

  On the first Sunday morning after our arrival we strolled out,Charles and I--I regret to say during the hours allotted for Divineservice--on to the King's Road, to get a whiff of fresh air, and aglimpse of the waves that were churning the Channel. The two ladies(with their bonnets) had gone to church; but Sir Charles had risenlate, fatigued from the week's toil, while I myself was sufferingfrom a matutinal headache, which I attributed to the close air inthe billiard-room overnight, combined, perhaps, with the insidiouseffect of a brand of soda-water to which I was little accustomed; Ihad used it to dilute my evening whisky. We were to meet our wivesafterwards at the church parade--an institution to which I believeboth Amelia and Isabel attach even greater importance than to thesermon which precedes it.

  We sat down on a glass seat. Charles gazed inquiringly up and downthe King's Road, on the look-out for a boy with Sunday papers.At last one passed. "Observer," my brother-in-law called outlaconically.

  "Ain't got none," the boy answered, brandishing his bundle in ourfaces. "'Ave a Referee or a Pink 'Un?"

  Charles, however, is not a Refereader, while as to the Pink 'Un, heconsiders it unsuitable for public perusal on Sunday morning. It maybe read indoors, but in the open air its blush betrays it. So heshook his head, and muttered, "If you pass an Observer, send him onhere at once to me."

  A polite stranger who sat close to us turned round with a pleasantsmile. "Would you allow me to offer you one?" he said, drawing acopy from his pocket. "I fancy I bought the last. There's a runon them to-day, you see. Important news this morning from theTransvaal."

  Charles raised his eyebrows, and accepted it, as I thought, just atrifle grumpily. So, to remove the false impression his surlinessmight produce on so benevolent a mind, I entered into conversationwith the polite stranger. He was a man of middle age, and mediumheight, with a cultivated air, and a pair of gold pince-nez; hiseyes were sharp; his voice was refined; he dropped into talk beforelong about distinguished people just then in Brighton. It was clearat once that he was hand in glove with many of the very best kind.We compared notes as to Nice, Rome, Florence, Cairo. Our newacquaintance had scores of friends in common with us, it seemed;indeed, our circles so largely coincided, that I wondered we hadnever happened till then to knock up against one another.

  "And Sir Charles Vandrift, the great African millionaire," he saidat last, "do you know anything of _him_? I'm told he's at presentdown here at the Metropole."

  I waved my hand towards the person in question.

  "_This_ is Sir Charles Vandrift," I answered, with proprietary pride;"and _I_ am his brother-in-law, Mr. Seymour Wentworth."

  "Oh, indeed!" the stranger answered, with a curious air of drawingin his horns. I wondered whether he had just been going to pretendhe knew Sir Charles, or whether perchance he was on the point ofsaying something highly uncomplimentary, and was glad to haveescaped it.

  By this time, however, Charles laid down the paper and chimed intoour conversation. I could see at once from his mollified tone thatthe news from the Transvaal was favourable to his operations inCloetedorp Golcondas. He was therefore in a friendly and affabletemper. His whole manner changed at once. He grew polite in returnto the polite stranger. Besides, we knew the man moved in the bestsociety; he had acquaintances whom Amelia was most anxious to securefor her "At Homes" in Mayfair--young Faith, the novelist, and SirRichard Montrose, the great Arctic traveller. As for the painters,it was clear that he was sworn friends with the whole lot of them.He dined with Academicians, and gave weekly breakfasts to themembers of the Institute. Now, Amelia is particularly desirousthat her salon should not be considered too exclusively financialand political in character: with a solid basis of M.P.'s andmillionaires, she loves a delicate under-current of literature,art, and the musical glasses. Our new acquaintance was extremelycommunicative: "Knows his place in society, Sey," Sir Charles saidto me afterwards, "and is therefore not afraid of talking freely,as so many people are who have doubts about their position." Weexchanged cards before we rose. Our new friend's name turned outto be Dr. Edward Polperro.

  "In practice here?" I inquired, though his garb belied it.

  "Oh, not medical," he answered. "I am an LL.D. don't you know. Iinterest myself in art, and buy to some extent for the NationalGallery."

  The very man for Amelia's "At Homes"! Sir Charles snapped at himinstantly. "I've brought my four-in-hand down here with me," hesaid, in his best friendly manner, "and we think of tooling overto-morrow to Lewes. If you'd care to take a seat I'm sure LadyVandrift would be charmed to see you."

  "You're very kind," the Doctor said, "on so casual an introduction.I'm sure I shall be delighted."

  "We start from the Metropole at ten-thirty," Charles went on.

  "I shall be there. Good morning!" And, with a satisfied smile, herose and left us, nodding.

  We returned to the lawn, to Amelia and Isabel. Our new friend passedus once or twice. Charles stopped him and introduced him. He waswalking with two ladies, most elegantly dressed in rather peculiarartistic dresses. Amelia was taken at first sight by his manner."One could see at a glance," she said, "he was a person of cultureand of real distinction. I wonder whether he could bring the P.R.A.to my Parliamentary 'At Home' on Wednesday fortnight?"

  Next day, at ten-thirty, we started on our drive. Our team has beenconsidered the best in Sussex. Charles is an excellent, thoughsomewhat anxious--or, might I say better, somewhat careful?--whip.He finds the management of two leaders and two wheelers fills hishands for the moment, both literally and figuratively, leaving verylittle time for general conversation. Lady Belleisle of Beaconbloomed beside him on the box (her bloom is perennial, and appliedby her maid); Dr. Polperro occupied the seat just behind with myselfand Amelia. The Doctor talked most of the time to Lady Vandrift: hisdiscourse was of picture-galleries, which Amelia detests, but inwhich she thinks it incumbent upon her, as Sir Charles's wife, toaffect now and then a cultivated interest. Noblesse oblige; and thewalls of Castle Seldon, our place in Ross-shire, are almost coverednow with Leaders and with Orchardsons. This result was first arrivedat by a singular accident. Sir Charles wanted a leader--for hiscoach, you understand--and told an artistic friend so. The artisticfriend brought him a Leader next week with a capital L; and SirCharles was so taken aback that he felt ashamed to confess theerror. So he was turned unawares into a patron of painting.

  Dr. Polperro, in spite of his too pronouncedly artistic talk, provedon closer view a most agreeable companion. He diversified his artcleverly with anecdotes and scandals; he told us exactly whichfamous painters had married their cooks, and which had only marriedtheir models; and otherwise showed himself a most diverting talker.Among other things, however, he happened to mention once that hehad recently discovered a genuine Rembrandt--a quite undoubtedRembrandt, which had remained for years in the keeping of acertain obscure Dutch family. It had always been allowed to be amasterpiece of the painter, but it had seldom been seen for thelast half-century save by a few intimate acquaintances. It was aportrait of one Maria Vanrenen of Haarlem, and he had bought itof her descendants at Gouda, in Holland.

  I saw Charles prick up his ears, though he took no open notice.This Maria Vanrenen, as it happened, was a remote collateralancestress of the Vandrifts, before they emigrated to the Cape in1780; and the existence of the portrait, though not its whereabouts,was well known in the family. Isabel had often mentioned it. If itwas to b
e had at anything like a reasonable price, it would be asplendid thing for the boys (Sir Charles, I ought to say, has twosons at Eton) to possess an undoubted portrait of an ancestressby Rembrandt.

  Dr. Polperro talked a good deal after that about this valuable find.He had tried to sell it at first to the National Gallery; butthough the Directors admired the work immensely, and admitted itsgenuineness, they regretted that the funds at their disposal thisyear did not permit them to acquire so important a canvas at aproper figure. South Kensington again was too poor; but the Doctorwas in treaty at present with the Louvre and with Berlin. Still,it was a pity a fine work of art like that, once brought into thecountry, should be allowed to go out of it. Some patriotic patronof the fine arts ought to buy it for his own house, or elsemunificently present it to the nation.

  All the time Charles said nothing. But I could feel him cogitating.He even looked behind him once, near a difficult corner (while theguard was actually engaged in tootling his horn to let passers-byknow that the coach was coming), and gave Amelia a warning glanceto say nothing committing, which had at once the requisite effectof sealing her mouth for the moment. It is a very unusual thingfor Charles to look back while driving. I gathered from his doingso that he was inordinately anxious to possess this Rembrandt.

  When we arrived at Lewes we put up our horses at the inn,and Charles ordered a lunch on his wonted scale of princelymagnificence. Meanwhile we wandered, two and two, about the townand castle. I annexed Lady Belleisle, who is at least amusing.Charles drew me aside before starting. "Look here, Sey," hesaid, "we must be _very_ careful. This man, Polperro, is a chanceacquaintance. There's nothing an astute rogue can take one in overmore easily than an Old Master. If the Rembrandt is genuine Iought to have it; if it really represents Maria Vanrenen, it's aduty I owe to the boys to buy it. But I've been done twice lately,and I won't be done a third time. We must go to work cautiously."

  "You are right," I answered. "No more seers and curates!"

  "If this man's an impostor," Charles went on--"and in spite of whathe says about the National Gallery and so forth, we know nothing ofhim--the story he tells is just the sort of one such a fellow wouldtrump up in a moment to deceive me. He could easily learn who Iwas--I'm a well-known figure; he knew I was in Brighton, and hemay have been sitting on that glass seat on Sunday on purpose toentrap me."

  "He introduced your name," I said, "and the moment he found out whoI was he plunged into talk with me."

  "Yes," Charles continued. "He may have learned about the portraitof Maria Vanrenen, which my grandmother always said was preservedat Gouda; and, indeed, I myself have often mentioned it, as youdoubtless remember. If so, what more natural, say, for a rogue thanto begin talking about the portrait in that innocent way to Amelia?If he wants a Rembrandt, I believe they can be turned out to orderto any amount in Birmingham. The moral of all which is, it behovesus to be careful."

  "Right you are," I answered; "and I am keeping my eye upon him."

  We drove back by another road, overshadowed by beech-trees inautumnal gold. It was a delightful excursion. Dr. Polperro's heartwas elated by lunch and the excellent dry Monopole. He talkedamazingly. I never heard a man with a greater or more varied flowof anecdote. He had been everywhere and knew all about everybody.Amelia booked him at once for her "At Home" on Wednesday week,and he promised to introduce her to several artistic and literarycelebrities.

  That evening, however, about half-past seven, Charles and I strolledout together on the King's Road for a blow before dinner. We dine ateight. The air was delicious. We passed a small new hotel, verysmart and exclusive, with a big bow window. There, in evening dress,lights burning and blind up, sat our friend, Dr. Polperro, with alady facing him, young, graceful, and pretty. A bottle of champagnestood open before him. He was helping himself plentifully tohot-house grapes, and full of good humour. It was clear he and thelady were occupied in the intense enjoyment of some capital joke;for they looked queerly at one another, and burst now and againinto merry peals of laughter.

  I drew back. So did Sir Charles. One idea passed at once throughboth our minds. I murmured, "Colonel Clay!" He answered, "_and_Madame Picardet!"

  They were not in the least like the Reverend Richard and Mrs.Brabazon. But that clinched the matter. Nor did I see a sign of theaquiline nose of the Mexican Seer. Still, I had learnt by then todiscount appearances. If these were indeed the famous sharper andhis wife or accomplice, we must be very careful. We were forewarnedthis time. Supposing he had the audacity to try a third trick ofthe sort upon us we had him under our thumbs. Only, we must takesteps to prevent his dexterously slipping through our fingers.

  "He can wriggle like an eel," said the Commissary at Nice. We bothrecalled those words, and laid our plans deep to prevent the man'swriggling away from us on this third occasion.

  "I tell you what it is, Sey," my brother-in-law said, withimpressive slowness. "This time we must deliberately lay ourselvesout to be swindled. We must propose of our own accord to buy thepicture, making him guarantee it in writing as a genuine Rembrandt,and taking care to tie him down by most stringent conditions. Butwe must seem at the same time to be unsuspicious and innocent asbabes; we must swallow whole whatever lies he tells us; pay hisprice--nominally--by cheque for the portrait; and then, arrest himthe moment the bargain is complete, with the proofs of his guiltthen and there upon him. Of course, what he'll try to do will be tovanish into thin air at once, as he did at Nice and Paris; but, thistime, we'll have the police in waiting and everything ready. We'llavoid precipitancy, but we'll avoid delay too. We must hold ourhands off till he's actually accepted and pocketed the money; andthen, we must nab him instantly, and walk him off to the local BowStreet. That's my plan of campaign. Meanwhile, we should appearall trustful innocence and confiding guilelessness."

  In pursuance of this well-laid scheme, we called next day on Dr.Polperro at his hotel, and were introduced to his wife, a daintylittle woman, in whom we affected not to recognise that arch MadamePicardet or that simple White Heather. The Doctor talked charmingly(as usual) about art--what a well-informed rascal he was, to besure!--and Sir Charles expressed some interest in the supposedRembrandt. Our new friend was delighted; we could see by hiswell-suppressed eagerness of tone that he knew us at once forprobable purchasers. He would run up to town next day, he said, andbring down the portrait. And in effect, when Charles and I took ourwonted places in the Pullman next morning, on our way up to thehalf-yearly meeting of Cloetedorp Golcondas, there was our Doctor,leaning back in his arm-chair as if the car belonged to him. Charlesgave me an expressive look. "Does it in style," he whispered,"doesn't he? Takes it out of my five thousand; or discounts theamount he means to chouse me of with his spurious Rembrandt."

  Arrived in town, we went to work at once. We set a private detectivefrom Marvillier's to watch our friend; and from him we learned thatthe so-called Doctor dropped in for a picture that day at a dealer'sin the West-end (I suppress the name, having a judicious fear ofthe law of libel ever before my eyes), a dealer who was known to bemixed up before then in several shady or disreputable transactions.Though, to be sure, my experience has been that picture dealersare--picture dealers. Horses rank first in my mind as begetters andproducers of unscrupulous agents, but pictures run them a very goodsecond. Anyhow, we found out that our distinguished art-criticpicked up his Rembrandt at this dealer's shop, and came down withit in his care the same night to Brighton.

  In order not to act precipitately, and so ruin our plans, we inducedDr. Polperro (what a cleverly chosen name!) to bring the Rembrandtround to the Metropole for our inspection, and to leave it with uswhile we got the opinion of an expert from London.

  The expert came down, and gave us a full report upon the allegedOld Master. In his judgment, it was not a Rembrandt at all, buta cunningly-painted and well-begrimed modern Dutch imitation.Moreover, he showed us by documentary evidence that the realportrait of Maria Vanrenen had, as a matter of fact, been broughtto England five years before, and sold
to Sir J. H. Tomlinson, thewell-known connoisseur, for eight thousand pounds. Dr. Polperro'spicture was, therefore, at best either a replica by Rembrandt; orelse, more probably, a copy by a pupil; or, most likely of all,a mere modern forgery.

  We were thus well prepared to fasten our charge of criminalconspiracy upon the self-styled Doctor. But in order to makeassurance still more certain, we threw out vague hints to him thatthe portrait of Maria Vanrenen might really be elsewhere, and evensuggested in his hearing that it might not improbably have got intothe hands of that omnivorous collector, Sir J. H. Tomlinson. Butthe vendor was proof against all such attempts to decry his goods.He had the effrontery to brush away the documentary evidence, and todeclare that Sir J. H. Tomlinson (one of the most learned and astutepicture-buyers in England) had been smartly imposed upon by a needyDutch artist with a talent for forgery. The real Maria Vanrenen, hedeclared and swore, was the one he offered us. "Success has turnedthe man's head," Charles said to me, well pleased. "He thinks wewill swallow any obvious lie he chooses to palm off upon us. But thebucket has come once too often to the well. This time we checkmatehim." It was a mixed metaphor, I admit; but Sir Charles's tropesare not always entirely superior to criticism.

  So we pretended to believe our man, and accepted his assurances.Next came the question of price. This was warmly debated, for form'ssake only. Sir J. H. Tomlinson had paid eight thousand for hisgenuine Maria. The Doctor demanded ten thousand for his spuriousone. There was really no reason why we should higgle and dispute,for Charles meant merely to give his cheque for the sum and thenarrest the fellow; but, still, we thought it best for the avoidanceof suspicion to make a show of resistance; and we at last beat himdown to nine thousand guineas. For this amount he was to give us awritten warranty that the work he sold us was a genuine Rembrandt,that it represented Maria Vanrenen of Haarlem, and that he hadbought it direct, without doubt or question, from that good lady'sdescendants at Gouda, in Holland.

  It was capitally done. We arranged the thing to perfection. We had aconstable in waiting in our rooms at the Metropole, and we settledthat Dr. Polperro was to call at the hotel at a certain fixed hourto sign the warranty and receive his money. A regular agreement onsound stamped paper was drawn out between us. At the appointed timethe "party of the first part" came, having already given us overpossession of the portrait. Charles drew a cheque for the amountagreed upon, and signed it. Then he handed it to the Doctor.Polperro just clutched at it. Meanwhile, I took up my post bythe door, while two men in plain clothes, detectives from thepolice-station, stood as men-servants and watched the windows. Wefeared lest the impostor, once he had got the cheque, should dodgeus somehow, as he had already done at Nice and in Paris. The momenthe had pocketed his money with a smile of triumph, I advanced to himrapidly. I had in my possession a pair of handcuffs. Before he knewwhat was happening, I had slipped them on his wrists and securedthem dexterously, while the constable stepped forward. "We have gotyou this time!" I cried. "We know who you are, Dr. Polperro. Youare--Colonel Clay, alias Senor Antonio Herrera, alias the ReverendRichard Peploe Brabazon."

  I never saw any man so astonished in my life! He was utterlyflabbergasted. Charles thought he must have expected to get clearaway at once, and that this prompt action on our part had takenthe fellow so much by surprise as to simply unman him. He gazedabout him as if he hardly realised what was happening.

  "Are these two raving maniacs?" he asked at last, "or what do theymean by this nonsensical gibberish about Antonio Herrera?"

  The constable laid his hand on the prisoner's shoulder.

  "It's all right, my man," he said. "We've got warrants out againstyou. I arrest you, Edward Polperro, alias the Reverend RichardPeploe Brabazon, on a charge of obtaining money under falsepretences from Sir Charles Vandrift, K.C.M.G., M.P., on his sworninformation, now here subscribed to." For Charles had had thething drawn out in readiness beforehand.

  Our prisoner drew himself up. "Look here, officer," he said, in anoffended tone, "there's some mistake here in this matter. I havenever given an alias at any time in my life. How do you know thisis really Sir Charles Vandrift? It may be a case of bullyingpersonation. My belief is, though, they're a pair of escapedlunatics."

  "We'll see about that to-morrow," the constable said, collaring him."At present you've got to go off with me quietly to the station,where these gentlemen will enter up the charge against you."

  They carried him off, protesting. Charles and I signed thecharge-sheet; and the officer locked him up to await his examinationnext day before the magistrate.

  We were half afraid even now the fellow would manage somehow toget out on bail and give us the slip in spite of everything;and, indeed, he protested in the most violent manner against thetreatment to which we were subjecting "a gentleman in his position."But Charles took care to tell the police it was all right; that hewas a dangerous and peculiarly slippery criminal, and that on noaccount must they let him go on any pretext whatever, till he hadbeen properly examined before the magistrates.

  We learned at the hotel that night, curiously enough, that therereally _was_ a Dr. Polperro, a distinguished art critic, whosename, we didn't doubt, our impostor had been assuming.

  Next morning, when we reached the court, an inspector met us with avery long face. "Look here, gentlemen," he said, "I'm afraid you'vecommitted a very serious blunder. You've made a precious bad mess ofit. You've got yourselves into a scrape; and, what's worse, you'vegot us into one also. You were a deal too smart with your sworninformation. We've made inquiries about this gentleman, and we findthe account he gives of himself is perfectly correct. His name _is_Polperro; he's a well-known art critic and collector of pictures,employed abroad by the National Gallery. He was formerly an officialin the South Kensington Museum, and he's a C.B. and LL.D., veryhighly respected. You've made a sad mistake, that's where it is; andyou'll probably have to answer a charge of false imprisonment, inwhich I'm afraid you have also involved our own department."

  Charles gasped with horror. "You haven't let him out," he cried, "onthose absurd representations? You haven't let him slip through yourhands as you did that murderer fellow?"

  "Let him slip through our hands?" the inspector cried. "I only wishhe would. There's no chance of that, unfortunately. He's in thecourt there, this moment, breathing out fire and slaughter againstyou both; and we're here to protect you if he should happen to fallupon you. He's been locked up all night on your mistaken affidavits,and, naturally enough, he's mad with anger."

  "If you haven't let him go, I'm satisfied," Charles answered."He's a fox for cunning. Where is he? Let me see him."

  We went into the court. There we saw our prisoner conversingamicably, in the most excited way, with the magistrate (who, itseems, was a personal friend of his); and Charles at once wentup and spoke to them. Dr. Polperro turned round and glared at himthrough his pince-nez.

  "The only possible explanation of this person's extraordinary andincredible conduct," he said, "is, that he must be mad--and hissecretary equally so. He made my acquaintance, unasked, on a glassseat on the King's Road; invited me to go on his coach to Lewes;volunteered to buy a valuable picture of me; and then, at thelast moment, unaccountably gave me in charge on this silly andpreposterous trumped-up accusation. I demand a summons for falseimprisonment."

  Suddenly it began to dawn upon us that the tables were turned. Bydegrees it came out that we had made a mistake. Dr. Polperro wasreally the person he represented himself to be, and had been always.His picture, we found out, was the real Maria Vanrenen, and agenuine Rembrandt, which he had merely deposited for cleaning andrestoring at the suspicious dealer's. Sir J. H. Tomlinson had beenimposed upon and cheated by a cunning Dutchman; _his_ picture, thoughalso an undoubted Rembrandt, was _not_ the Maria, and was an inferiorspecimen in bad preservation. The authority we had consulted turnedout to be an ignorant, self-sufficient quack. The Maria, moreover,was valued by other experts at no more than five or six thousandguineas. Charles wanted to cry off his bargain, but
Dr. Polperronaturally wouldn't hear of it. The agreement was a legally bindinginstrument, and what passed in Charles's mind at the moment hadnothing to do with the written contract. Our adversary onlyconsented to forego the action for false imprisonment on conditionthat Charles inserted a printed apology in the Times, and paid himfive hundred pounds compensation for damage to character. So thatwas the end of our well-planned attempt to arrest the swindler.

  Not quite the end, however; for, of course, after this, the wholeaffair got by degrees into the papers. Dr. Polperro, who was afamiliar person in literary and artistic society, as it turned out,brought an action against the so-called expert who had declaredagainst the genuineness of his alleged Rembrandt, and convicted himof the grossest ignorance and misstatement. Then paragraphs gotabout. The World showed us up in a sarcastic article; and Truth,which has always been terribly severe upon Sir Charles and all theother South Africans, had a pungent set of verses on "High Art inKimberley." By this means, as we suppose, the affair became knownto Colonel Clay himself; for a week or two later my brother-in-lawreceived a cheerful little note on scented paper from our persistentsharper. It was couched in these terms:--

  "Oh, you innocent infant!

  "Bless your ingenuous little heart! And did it believe, then, ithad positively caught the redoubtable colonel? And had it ready anice little pinch of salt to put upon his tail? And is it true itsrespected name is Sir Simple Simon? How heartily we have laughed,White Heather and I, at your neat little ruses! It would pay you,by the way, to take White Heather into your house for six monthsto instruct you in the agreeable sport of amateur detectives. Yourcharming naivete quite moves our envy. So you actually imagined aman of my brains would condescend to anything so flat and stale asthe silly and threadbare Old Master deception! And this in theso-called nineteenth century! O sancta simplicitas! When againshall such infantile transparency be mine? When, ah, when? But nevermind, dear friend. Though you didn't catch me, we shall meet beforelong at some delightful Philippi.

  "Yours, with the profoundest respect and gratitude,

  "ANTONIO HERRERA,

  "Otherwise RICHARD PEPLOE BRABAZON."

  Charles laid down the letter with a deep-drawn sigh. "Sey, my boy,"he mused aloud, "no fortune on earth--not even mine--can go onstanding it. These perpetual drains begin really to terrify me. Iforesee the end. I shall die in a workhouse. What with the money herobs me of when he _is_ Colonel Clay, and the money I waste upon himwhen he _isn't_ Colonel Clay, the man is beginning to tell upon mynervous system. I shall withdraw altogether from this worrying life.I shall retire from a scheming and polluted world to some untaintedspot in the fresh, pure mountains."

  "You _must_ need rest and change," I said, "when you talk like that.Let us try the Tyrol."