of Sir John Constantine, that he is quite capable, if he receive such
an answer, of having your blood in a bottle."

"'Sir John Constantine?' did I hear you say. _Sir_ John
Constantine?'" queried the Reverend Mr. Figg, with a complete change
of manner. "That's _quite_ another thing! Anything to oblige Sir
John Constantine, I'm sure--"

"Do you know him?" asked my uncle.

"Well--er--no; I can't honestly declare that I _know_ him; but, of
course, one knows _of_ him--that is to say, I understand him to be a
gentleman of title; a knight at least."

"Yes," my uncle answered, "he is at least that. What a very
extraordinary person!" he added in a wondering aside.

Oddly enough, as we were leaving, I heard the woman Nan say pretty
much the same of my uncle. She added that she had a great mind to
kiss him.

We found my father and the prisoner seated with the bottle between
them on the rickety liquor-stained table. Yet--as I remember the
scene now--not all the squalor of the room could efface or diminish
the majesty of their two figures. They sat like two tall old kings,
eye to eye, not friends, or reconciled only in this last and lonely
hour by meditation on man's common fate. If I cannot make you
understand this, what follows will seem to you absurd, though indeed
at the time it was not so.