THE SERPENT IN THE GARDEN


"Now, you old sinner! Let's hear your valuable piece of information!"
Carelessly Ralph Dacre sauntered forth again into the moonlight and
confronted the tatterdemalion figure of his visitor.

The contrast between them was almost fantastic so strongly did the
arrogance of the one emphasize the deep abasement of the other. Dacre
was of large build and inclined to stoutness. He had the ruddy
complexion of the English country squire. He moved with the swagger of
the conquering race.

The man who cringed before him, palsied, misshapen, a mere wreck of
humanity, might have been a being from another sphere--some underworld
of bizarre creatures that crawled purblind among shadows.

He salaamed again profoundly in response to Dacre's contemptuous words,
nearly rubbing his forehead upon the ground. "His most noble excellency
is pleased to be gracious," he murmured. "If he will deign to follow his
miserably unworthy servant up the goat-path where none may overhear, he
will speak his message and depart."

"Oh, it's a message, is it?" With a species of scornful tolerance Dacre
turned towards the path indicated. "Well, lead on! I'm not coming
far--no, not for untold wealth. Nor am I going to waste much time over
you. I have better things to do."

The old man turned also with a cringing movement. "Only a little way,
most noble!" he said in his thin, cracked voice. "Only a little way!"