and when the intellectuals have thought of their
intellects or their skins, they have thought only of their duty. And it
was only the heroical sense of duty that sustained Sir Anthony Fenimore
that day.

I did not see the reception at the Railway Station or join the
triumphal procession; but went early to the Town Hall and took my seat
on the platform. I glibly say "took my seat." A wheel-chair, sent there
previously, was hoisted, with me inside, on to the platform by Marigold
and a porter. After all these years, I still hate to be publicly
paraded, like a grizzled baby, in Marigold's arms. For convenience'
sake I was posted at the front left-hand corner. The hall soon filled.
The first three rows of seats were reserved for the recipients of the
municipality's special invitation; the remainder were occupied by the
successful applicants for tickets. From my almost solitary perch I
watched the fluttering and excited crowd. The town band in the organ
gallery at the further end discoursed martial music. From the main door
beneath them ran the central gangway to the platform. I recognised many
friends. In the front row with her two aunts sat Betty, very demure in
her widow's hat relieved by its little white band of frilly stuff
beneath the brim. She looked unusually pale. I could not help watching
her intently and trying to divine how much she knew of the story of
Boyce and Althea. She caught my eye, nodded, and smiled wanly.

My situation was uncanny. In this crowded assemblage in front of me,
whispering, talking, laughing beneath the blare of the band, not one,
save Betty, had a suspicion of the tragedy. At times they seemed to
melt into a shadow-mass of dreamland .... Time crawled on very slowly.
Anxious forebodings oppressed me. Had Sir Anthony's valiancy stood the
test? Had he been able to shake hands with his daughter's betrayer? Had
he broken down during the drive side by side with him, amid the
hooraying of the townsfolk? And Gedge? Had he found some madman's means
of proclaiming the scandal aloud? Every nerve in my body was strained.
Marigold, in his uniform and medals and patch and grey service cap
plugged over his black wig, stood sentry by the side of the platform
next my chair. All of a sudden he pulled out of his side pocket a phial
of red liqueur in a medicine glass. He poured out the dose and handed
it to me. I turned on him wrathfully.

"What the dickens is that?"

"Dr. Cliffe's orders, sir."

"When di