the unexpected shouts a hoarse "Qui vive?"--it is only then we
begin to question; to prick our aldermen and pinch the calves of
our kings. Why, who is there can answer to anybody's but his own
satisfaction just that one fundamental question--Are we the
prisoners, the slaves, the inheritors, the creatures, or the
creators of our bodies? Fallen angels or horrific dust? As for
identity or likeness or personality, we have only our neighbours'
nod for them, and just a fading memory. No, the old fairy tales
knew better; and witchcraft's witchcraft to the end of the
chapter. Honestly, and just of course on that one theory,
Lawford, I can't help thinking that Sabathier's raid only just so
far succeeded as to leave his impression in the wax. It doesn't,
of course, follow that it will necessarily end there. It might--
it may be even now just gradually fading away. It may, you know,
need driving out--with whips and scorpions. It might, perhaps,
work in.'

Lawford sat cold and still. 'It's no good, no good,' he said, 'I
don't understand; I can't follow you. I was always stupid, always
bigoted and cocksure. These things have never seemed anything but
old women's tales to me. And now I must pay for it. And this
Nicholas Sabathier; you say he was a blackguard?'

'Well,' said Herbert with a faint smile, 'that depends on your
definition of the word. He wasn't a flunkey, a fool, or a prig,
if that's what you mean. He wasn't perhaps on Mrs Grundy's
visiting list. He wasn't exactly gregarious. And yet in a sense
that kind of temperament is so rare that Sappho, Nelson, and
Shelley shared it. To the stodgy, suety world of course it's
little else than sheer moonshine, midsummer madness. Naturally,