alled Prior's
as any rural place is called Podger's. It was the house of a Mr.
Prior, a farmhouse, probably, that stood here at some time or other
and was a local landmark. Oh, there are a great many examples of the
same thing, here and everywhere else. This suburb of ours used to be
a village, and because some of the people slurred the name and
pronounced it Holliwell, many a minor poet indulged in fancies about
a Holy Well, with spells and fairies and all the rest of it, filling
the suburban drawing-rooms with the Celtic twilight. Whereas anyone
acquainted with the facts knows that 'Hollinwall' simply means 'the
hole in the wall,' and probably referred to some quite trivial
accident. That's what I mean when I say that we don't so much find
old things as we find new ones."

Crane seemed to have grown somewhat inattentive to the little
lecture on antiquities and novelties, and the cause of his
restlessness was soon apparent, and indeed approaching. Lord
Bulmer's sister, Juliet Bray, was coming slowly across the lawn,
accompanied by one gentleman and followed by two others. The young
architect was in the illogical condition of mind in which he
preferred three to one.

The man walking with the lady was no other than the eminent Prince
Borodino, who was at least as famous as a distinguished diplomatist
ought to be, in the interests of what is called secret diplomacy. He
had been paying a round of visits at various English country houses,
and exactly what he was doing for diplomacy at Prior's Park was as
much a secret as any diplomatist could desire. The obvious thing to
say of his appearance was that he would have been extremely handsome
if he had not been entirely bald. But, indeed, that would itself be
a rather bald way of putting it. Fantastic as it sounds, it would
fit the case better to say that people would have been surprised to
see hair growing on him; as surprised as if they had found hair
growing on the bust of a Roman emperor. His tall figure was buttoned
up in a tight-waisted fashion that rather accentuated his potential
bulk, and he wore a red flower in his buttonhole. Of the two men
walking behind one was also bald, but in a more partial and also a
more premature fashion, for his drooping mustache was still yellow,
and if his eyes were somewhat heavy it was with languor and not with
age. It was Horne Fisher, and he was talking as easily and idly
about everything as he always did. His companion was a more