Moonchild

subordinates had sticky fingers. One of these places was a discreet apartment in the very best quarter of Paris. Here he was the Scottish Nobleman of the Old School. The decorations were rich but not gaudy; even the ancestors were not overdone. The place of honour was occupied by Rob Roy's claymore, alleged. One of his claims was that the Highland Cateran was his ancestor, owing to a liason with a fairy. Another claim was that he himself was James IV of Scotland, that he had survived the Battle of Flodden Field, become an adept, and immortal. Despite what to a profane mind might seem the incompatibility of these two legends — to say nothing of the improbability of either — they were greedily swallowed by the Theosophist section of his following. In this apartment he received the credulous type of person who is impressed by rank; and no man [238] could play the part of stateliness better than this old reprobate. His other place was of the hermit's cell model, a tiny cottage with its well- kept garden; such abound all over Paris in the most unexpected spots. He actually imposed upon the old lady who kept this house for him. Here he was the simple old man of utter holiness, the lonely recluse, the saintly anchorite, his only food bruised herbs or pulse, his only drink the same as quenched the thirst of Father Adam. His long absences from this sacrosanct abode were explained by the fact of his absorption in trance, in which he was supposed to indulge underground. Of course he only visited the place when he had to receive a certain type of visitor, that loftier type which has enough rank and wealth to know that they are not necessary to a search after Truth, and is impressed by simplicity and saintliness. It was at the former address that the Count received Mr. Butcher. He was dressed in severe and refined broadcloth, with the rosette of the Legion of Honour — to which he was well entitled — in his buttonhole. In presence of this splendour the American was ill at ease; but Douglas knew how to make a man his own by giving him a good conceit of himself. "I am proud to meet you, Mr. Butcher," he began, affably. "May I beg of you to take the trouble to be seated! The chair is worthy of you," he added, with a smile; "it was at one time the property of Frederick the Great." The servant, who was dressed as a Highland Gillie in gala costume, offered cigars and whisky. "Say, this is sure some whisky, Count! This is where I fall off the wagon, one time, John. You watch my batting average!" observed Mr. Butcher,