ive to the beauty of the night, but was too much taken up
with his thoughts to pay much attention to its mingled mystery of shadow
and light. As he took his musing way through the wide streets of the
modern town, he was suddenly brought to a standstill by hearing the
voice of Jentham some distance away. Evidently the man had quarrelled
with the landlord, and had been turned out of the hotel, for he came
rolling along in a lurching, drunken manner, roaring out a wild and
savage ditty, picked up, no doubt, in some land at the back of beyond.

Oh, I have treked the eight world climes,
And sailed the seven seas:
I've made my pile a hundred times,
And chucked the lot on sprees.

But when my ship comes home, my lads,
Why, curse me, don't I know
The spot that's worth, the blooming earth,
The spot where I shall go.

They call it Callao! for oh, it's Callao.
For on no condition
Is extradition
Allowed in Callao.'

Jentham roared and ranted the fierce old chanty with as much gusto and
noise as though he were camping in the waste lands to which the song
applied, instead of disturbing the peace of a quiet English town. As his
thin form came swinging along in the silver light, men and women drew
back with looks of alarm to let him pass, and Cargrim, not wishing to
have trouble with the drunken bully, slipped into the shadow of a house
until he passed. As usual, there was no policeman visible, and Jentham
went bellowing and storming through the quiet summer night like the
dissolute ruffian he was. He was making for the country in the direction
of the palace, and wondering if he intended to force his way into the
house to threaten Dr Pendle, the chaplain followed immediately behind.
But he was careful to keep out of sight, as Jentham was in just the
excited frame of mind to draw a knife: and Cargrim, knowing his lawless
nature, had little doubt but that he had one concealed in his boot or
trouser belt. The delicate coward shivered at the idea of a
rough-and-tumble encounter with an armed buccaneer.

On went Jentham, swinging his arms with mad gestures, and followed by
the black shadow of the chaplain, until the two were clear of the town.
Then the gipsy turned down a shadowy lane, cut through a footpath, and
when he emerged again into the broad roadway, found himself opposite the
iron gates of the episcopalian park. Here he stopped singing and shook
his fist at them.

'Come out, you devil-