the thing itself, you know—blood and men screaming, one feels about having a little house and a little hobby; in the Bible, you know, 'There remaineth a rest'.”
Northover bowed. Then after a pause he said:
“Gentlemen, may I offer you my card. If any of the rest of you desire, at any time, to communicate with me, despite Major Brown's view of the matter—”
“I should be obliged for your card, sir,” said the Major, in his abrupt but courteous voice. “Pay for chair.”
The agent of Romance and Adventure handed his card, laughing.
It ran, “P. G. Northover, B.A., C.Q.T., Adventure and Romance Agency, 14 Tanner's Court, Fleet Street.”
“What on earth is 'C.Q.T.'?” asked Rupert Grant, looking over the Major's shoulder.
“Don't you know?” returned Northover. “Haven't you ever heard of the Club of Queer Trades?”
“There seems to be a confounded lot of funny things we haven't heard of,” said the little Major reflectively. “What's this one?”
“The Club of Queer Trades is a society consisting exclusively of people who have invented some new and curious way of making money. I was one of the earliest members.”
“You deserve to be,” said Basil, taking up his great white hat, with a smile, and speaking for the last time that evening.
When they had passed out the Adventure and Romance agent wore a queer smile, as he trod down the fire and locked up his desk. “A fine chap, that Major; when one hasn't a touch of the poet one stands some chance of being a poem. But to think of such a clockwork little creature of all people getting into the nets of one of Grigsby's tales,” and he laughed out aloud in the silence.
Just as the laugh echoed away, there came a sharp knock at the door. An owlish head, with dark moustaches, was thrust in, with deprecating and somewhat absurd inquiry.
“What! back again, Major?” cried Northover in surprise. “What can I do for you?”
The Major shuffled feverishly into the room.
“It's horribly absurd,” he said. “Something must have got started in me that I never knew before. But upon my soul I feel the most desperate desire to know the end of it all.”
“The end of it all?”
“Yes,” said the Major. “'Jackals', and the title-deeds, and 'Death to Major Brown'.”
The agent's face grew grave, but his eyes were amused.
“I am terribly sorry, Major,” said he, “but what you ask is impossible. I don't know any one I would sooner oblige than you; but the rules of the agency are strict. The Adventures are confidential; you are an outsider; I am not allowed to let you know an inch more than I can help. I do hope you understand—”
“There is no one,” said Brown, “who understands discipline better than I do. Thank you very much. Good night.”
And the little man withdrew for the last time.
He married Miss Jameson, the lady with the red hair and the green garments. She was an actress, employed (with many others) by the Romance Agency; and her marriage with the prim old veteran caused some stir in her languid and intellectualized set. She always replied very quietly that she had met scores of men who acted splendidly in the charades provided for them by Northover, but that she had only met one man who went down into a coal-cellar when he really thought it contained a murderer.
The Major and she are living as happily as birds, in an absurd villa, and the former has taken to smoking. Otherwise he is unchanged—except, perhaps, there are moments when, alert and full of feminine unselfishness as the Major is by nature, he falls into a trance of abstraction. Then his wife recognizes with a concealed smile, by the blind look in his blue eyes, that he is wondering what were the title-deeds, and why he was not allowed to mention jackals. But, like so many old soldiers, Brown is religious, and believes that he will realize the rest of those purple adventures in a better world.
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