"Oh, I don't understand what you mean," cried Rosamund Hunt, stamping, "but you must and shall understand what I mean.
I don't care how cruelly I put it, if only I can save you.
I mean that your Innocent Smith is the most awfully wicked man in the world. He has sent bullets at lots of other men and gone off in cabs with lots of other women. And he seems to have killed the women too, for nobody can find them."
"He is really rather naughty sometimes," said Mary Gray, laughing softly as she buttoned her old gray gloves.
"Oh, this is really mesmerism, or something," said Rosamund, and burst into tears.
At the same moment the two black-clad doctors appeared out of the house with their great green-clad captive between them.
He made no resistance, but was still laughing in a groggy and half-witted style. Arthur Inglewood followed in the rear, a dark and red study in the last shades of distress and shame.
In this black, funereal, and painfully realistic style the exit from Beacon House was made by a man whose entrance a day before had been effected by the happy leaping of a wall and the hilarious climbing of a tree. No one moved of the groups in the garden except Mary Gray, who stepped forward quite naturally, calling out, "Are you ready, Innocent? Our cab's been waiting such a long time."
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Dr. Warner firmly, "I must insist on asking this lady to stand aside. We shall have trouble enough as it is, with the three of us in a cab."
"But it IS our cab," persisted Mary. "Why, there's Innocent's yellow bag on the top of it."
"Stand aside," repeated Warner roughly. "And you, Mr. Moon, please be so obliging as to move a moment. Come, come! the sooner this ugly business is over the better--and how can we open the gate if you will keep leaning on it?"
Michael Moon looked at his long lean forefinger, and seemed to consider and reconsider this argument. "Yes, he said at last;
"but how can I lean on this gate if you keep on opening it?"
"Oh, get out of the way!" cried Warner, almost good-humouredly.
"You can lean on the gate any time."
"No," said Moon reflectively. "Seldom the time and the place and the blue gate altogether; and it all depends whether you come of an old country family. My ancestors leaned on gates before any one had discovered how to open them."
"Michael!" cried Arthur Inglewood in a kind of agony, "are you going to get out of the way?"
"Why, no; I think not," said Michael, after some meditation, and swung himself slowly round, so that he confronted the company, while still, in a lounging attitude, occupying the path.
"Hullo!" he called out suddenly; "what are you doing to Mr. Smith?"
"Taking him away," answered Warner shortly, "to be examined."
"Matriculation?" asked Moon brightly.
"By a magistrate," said the other curtly.
"And what other magistrate," cried Michael, raising his voice, "dares to try what befell on this free soil, save only the ancient and independent Dukes of Beacon? What other court dares to try one of our company, save only the High Court of Beacon? Have you forgotten that only this afternoon we flew the flag of independence and severed ourselves from all the nations of the earth?"
"Michael," cried Rosamund, wringing her hands, "how can you stand there talking nonsense? Why, you saw the dreadful thing yourself.
You were there when he went mad. It was you that helped the doctor up when he fell over the flower-pot."
"And the High Court of Beacon," replied Moon with hauteur, "has special powers in all cases concerning lunatics, flower-pots, and doctors who fall down in gardens.
It's in our very first charter from Edward I: `Si medicus quisquam in horto prostratus--'"
"Out of the way!" cried Warner with sudden fury, "or we will force you out of it."
"What!" cried Michael Moon, with a cry of hilarious fierceness.
"Shall I die in defence of this sacred pale? Will you paint these blue railings red with my gore?" and he laid hold of one of the blue spikes behind him. As Inglewood had noticed earlier in the evening, the railing was loose and crooked at this place, and the painted iron staff and spearhead came away in Michael's hand as he shook it.
"See!" he cried, brandishing this broken javelin in the air, "the very lances round Beacon Tower leap from their places to defend it.
Ah, in such a place and hour it is a fine thing to die alone!"
And in a voice like a drum he rolled the noble lines of Ronsard--
"Ou pour l'honneur de Dieu, ou pour le droit de mon prince, Navre, poitrine ouverte, au bord de mon province."
"Sakes alive!" said the American gentleman, almost in an awed tone.
Then he added, "Are there two maniacs here?"
"No; there are five," thundered Moon. "Smith and I are the only sane people left."
"Michael!" cried Rosamund; "Michael, what does it mean?"
"It means bosh!" roared Michael, and slung his painted spear hurtling to the other end of the garden. "It means that doctors are bosh, and criminology is bosh, and Americans are bosh-- much more bosh than our Court of Beacon. It means, you fatheads, that Innocent Smith is no more mad or bad than the bird on that tree."
"But, my dear Moon," began Inglewood in his modest manner, "these gentlemen--"
"On the word of two doctors," exploded Moon again, without listening to anybody else, "shut up in a private hell on the word of two doctors! And such doctors! Oh, my hat!
Look at 'em!--do just look at 'em! Would you read a book, or buy a dog, or go to a hotel on the advice of twenty such?
My people came from Ireland, and were Catholics. What would you say if I called a man wicked on the word of two priests?"
"But it isn't only their word, Michael," reasoned Rosamund;
"they've got evidence too."
"Have you looked at it?" asked Moon.
"No," said Rosamund, with a sort of faint surprise; "these gentlemen are in charge of it."
"And of everything else, it seems to me," said Michael. "Why, you haven't even had the decency to consult Mrs. Duke."
"Oh, that's no use," said Diana in an undertone to Rosamund; "Auntie can't say `Bo!' to a goose."
