CHAPTER XIII
THE ENCOUNTER IN THE WOOD
Isabel crossed to her own room, put on her hat, smiling at herself in the looking-glass as she arranged it to her satisfaction, then went downstairs, and out of the house without a word to any one. It was perhaps because she was conscious that Martha was peeping at her through the stillroom window that she began to whistle. She was still whistling one of the latest possible melodies when, entering the drive, she turned off among the trees and struck into the woods. Whistling was one of her accomplishments: she whistled very well. The sound of her clear pipe travelled far and wide. No one to hear her, or, for the matter of that, to look at her either, would have supposed that she had a care upon her mind. She bore herself like some lighthearted, happy girl, who, with unstained conscience, looks the whole world in the face, thinking what a delightful place it was for a pretty girl to be in.
As a matter of fact it was the bright side of the picture which presented itself to her-the bright side only. In imagination she saw herself, as she would herself have phrased it, with "tons of money" and "heaps of friends"; the bright particular star of a radiant circle. Everywhere she was greeted with outstretched hands, glad faces and pæans of welcome. Her frocks were the most numerous and the "sweetest," her carriages and horses were the finest, everything she had was of the very best, and she had everything the heart-her heart! – could desire.
With that union of the practical with the imaginative which was not the least prominent of her characteristics she there and then began to inquire of herself what exactly in her new position she should do. To begin with, there was the delicate question of what she should call herself. Should she be Mrs. Lamb or Mrs. Grahame? Should she revert to her maiden patronymic, or should she start life again, with a fresh name altogether, one more in consonance with her new position? These were points she felt which would depend largely upon circumstances; she might not have so much freedom in the matter as she might desire. Then there was the question of domicile. Where should she reside? One thing was certain, she would not stay where she was-nothing would induce her. If she had her own way she would never come near the place again-never! As for living in his house! – in the middle of her brilliant imaginings the mere thought of such a thing seemed to make her blood run cold.
On the instant her mood was changed. She stood still, amid the trees and bushes. With clenched fists, a new expression in her eyes, she looked behind her, first over one shoulder, then the other, then to the right and to the left, as if in search of something she had no desire to see. A sudden, strange reluctance seemed to clog her limbs. She listened: there was only the cawing of some distant rooks and the whisper of the breeze among the pines. With a laugh at her stupidity, breaking through the something which constrained her, she went striding on.
But she had not gone far when a very genuine sound brought her to a halt. In itself a commonplace, there it was the most unusual of noises: it was the sound of footsteps, of some one tramping through the forest. In all the time she had known the place she had never heard a step except her own. Could it be Margaret Wallace, still lingering about the haunts she probably knew well and loved? It would be disconcerting if it were. If they met-but that was hardly a woman's step. Could it be the doctor? What was he doing in the forest on foot? Besides, she had noticed what little pattering steps he took; this person was striding.
The walker was hidden from her by a clump of bracken which rose to a height of some six or seven feet. He was moving in her direction. Should she retreat? It could probably be done, and before he caught a glimpse of her. Should she advance and meet him? or should she wait until he came to her? While she hesitated, the decision was taken out of her hands. The walker, threading his way among the bracken, reached a point where the stalks were shorter. All at once she found herself confronted by-Gregory Lamb.
She stared at him with as much amazement as he stared at her, and her amazement was unbounded. Possibly he was the last person with whom she would have associated the advancing footsteps; no thought of him had crossed her mind. Not improbably, since she at least had cause to suspect that he might be in the neighbourhood, his surprise was even greater than hers. He stood looking at her in bewildered silence, as if unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. When he did speak the observation which he made was characteristic.
"Well, I'm hanged!"
Her retort was equally in character.
"I wish you were!"
"I daresay; but I rather fancy that when it does come to hanging, where you and I are concerned, it will be a case of the lady first. Where the deuce have you been all this time? and what on earth are you doing here?"
"What business is that of yours? Do you know you're trespassing?"
"What business is it of mine? and do I know I'm trespassing? Well, that's pretty good, considering you're my wife, and the way you've behaved. Do you happen to know that the police are scouring the country for you, and that they're only lying low because they think you're dead, or something?"
"It's a lie! You're a natural born liar; you tell nothing but lies."
"Don't you think you've a little gift of you're own in that direction? I do! It was bad enough to sneak off from me like that; but to steal the old girl's money was playing it too low down!"
"What are you talking about? What do you mean?"
"You know very well what I'm talking about! Do you think that I don't know-and that everybody doesn't know-that you broke into Mrs. Macconichie's cupboard and stole her savings? A pretty mess I got into because you were a thief! You don't happen to know, I suppose, that they locked me up for what you'd done, and that they only let me go when I proved that that sort of thing wasn't quite in my line."
"Serve you right!"
"What served me right? – locking me up, or letting me go?"
"Anything would serve you right, you brute!"
"Brute, am I? All right, my lady! if that's the way you're going to talk to me I'll soon let the police know whereabouts you are, and then they'll serve you right. A good taste of prison would do you good, you dirty thief!"
"Don't shout like that!"
"Then don't you call me names. I'm not a thief whatever else I am."
"I'm not so sure of that. What are you doing here?"
"What do you mean, what am I doing here?"
"I thought you'd gone back to London long ago."
"Then you're wrong, because I haven't; and what's more, I'm not likely to go. I've been having a real bad time, that's what I've been having."
"Haven't those rich friends of yours sent that remittance you were always gassing about?"
"No, they haven't." After a pause, he added, sullenly, "My old mother's allowing me a pound a week, and I'm living on that. So now you know."
"Honest?"
"It's the gospel truth. So you'll be able to judge for yourself how likely I am to be able to get back to London on that, especially as she won't let me have a penny in advance."
"A nice sort you are! – after the lies you told me about the tons of money you'd got yourself, and the other tons your friends had got! – a pound a week!"
"Anyhow I'm not a thief."
"And I shouldn't have been a thief if I hadn't listened to your lies; and very well you know it. I've had enough of you; take yourself off!"
"Take myself off?"
"Yes, take yourself off, before I tell some one to take you."
"Well! you've got a face! If I do go I'll put the police on to you, and then you'll sing a different song."
"You dare!"
"Dare!" he laughed, not pleasantly. "What is there to dare? I'd think as little of putting the police on to you as I would of putting a dog on to a cat. They'd soon show you your place, you thief!"
There was an interval of silence, during which she looked at him over the intervening bracken. If looks could kill he would have dropped dead where he stood.
"Well, are you going to take yourself off, or am I to tell them to take you?"
"Who's them? – tell away! I think that when I tell them you're my wife, and that the police have been looking for you for quite a while, they-whoever they may be! – won't be so keen to interfere with me as you perhaps fancy. There's another thing: you seem to be forgetting that you're my wife. When I do go you'll go with me."
"Will I? We'll see."
"We will see; or, if you prefer it, it shall be the other way about, I'll go with you."
"Will you?"
"It'll have to be one or the other, you may take it from me. Well, are you going to call those friends of yours? Are you coming with me, or am I to go with you? Which is it to be? I'm in no hurry; take your time. I'll have a pipe while you're thinking it over."
He filled a pipe which he took from his pocket, while she glared at him.
"I'm as strong as you; I believe I'm stronger; I believe I could kill you if I chose."
"Be a murderer as well as a thief, would you? I shouldn't be surprised. You mightn't find it so easy to bring off this job as you did the other; killing a man is not so simple as killing a pig, take my word for it."
"Listen to me, Gregory Lamb."
"I'm listening, Mrs. Lamb, and it gives me real pleasure to do it."
"I'll make a rich man of you if you'll take yourself off."
He stayed the lighted match on its passage to his pipe.
"You'll make a rich man of me? Now you're singing in quite another key. How are you going to do it?"
"I'm staying in the house of a man who's dying."
"Dying is he? Then what does he want you in the house for? Have you turned nurse? Is that your latest caper?"
"Never mind what I've turned. He's a rich man."
"What do you call rich? – like me?"
"You fool! He owns all this" – she threw out her arms-"and ever so much besides."
"Owns all this? Is it Cuthbert Grahame you're talking about?"
"What do you know about Cuthbert Grahame?"
"Only that I happen to be living in one of his cottages-just over there-and a nice hole it is. But you can't expect much in the way of board and lodging for a pound a week, especially when you want some change left out of it. You're living in Cuthbert Grahame's house? Why, then-great Scot! – you must be the woman they're talking about who dropped from the skies." A change took place in the expression of his countenance which in its way was comical. "A pretty sort of she-devil you must be!"
"Now what are you talking about?"
"I know everything. Why, one of the servants up at Cuthbert Grahame's-Martha Blair-is the daughter of the people I'm lodging with. They talk of nothing else but you. You've been passing yourself off as Cuthbert Grahame's wife."
"Well, what of it?"
"What of it? – that's good! First theft, then bigamy!"
"You fool! he's dying."
"I don't see what difference that makes; from what I understand he's been dying for years."
"He's made a will in my favour."
"Did he tell you?"
"He did. He's left me everything-every shilling he has in the world."
"You're a beauty, upon my soul you are!"
"And I tell you that he's dying while we are standing here. The odds are that he'll be dead by the time that I get back."
"How do you know?"
"Then everything he has will be mine-ours."
"Ours?"
"Ours! – yours and mine! – if you can keep a still tongue in your head, and keep on pretending that you know nothing about me."
He was trembling.
"What about the Mrs. Grahame?"
"Stuff the Mrs. Grahame! After he's dead I can soon be Mrs. Lamb again. What's to stop me?"
"Shall we have to live here?"
She shuddered, involuntarily.
"Live here? – not much! We'll clear out of this in double quick time. We'll take a house in London, and live like princes."
He moistened his lips with his tongue.
"You'll act on the square with me?"
"Of course I will, if you'll act on the square with me. Look here, there's a ten-pound note for you. It's all I've got about me, but as you seem hard up you may find it useful. You go back, and unless I'm mistaken by to-morrow morning you'll hear he's dead. It won't take me long to put things ship-shape. Don't you write or try to see me, unless I give you the office. I'll keep you posted in how things are going. And so soon as I can lay hands on a good lot of the ready, if you like we'll go up to town together, and we'll have a real old spree as we go."
"Belle, you-you're-"
He stopped, as if his vocabulary failed him altogether.
"Yes, I know I am; I'm all that, and more besides."
She laughed, and he laughed. In the laughter of neither of them was there any merriment. The sounds they emitted were merely mechanical.
CHAPTER XIV
IN CUTHBERT GRAHAME'S ROOM
On Isabel's return to the house she was greeted on the threshold by Martha, the Martha Blair whose connection with Gregory Lamb's present place of residence seemed destined to have a considerable bearing on Isabel's future life, and, at least, to settle the debated question of what her future name and title were to be. Martha's whole attitude was significant of some great happening. Her hands were raised; it seemed that if possible her hair would have been raised too; her eyebrows were elevated to quite a perceptible degree. Her eyes and mouth were wide open; agitation, of a not unpleasant kind, streamed from every pore of her. Behind was Jane, every whit as interested as her companion; but as she happened to be both the younger and the smaller her opportunities for display were less pronounced. Outside stood Dr. Twelves' dogcart; the horse, untended and untethered, apparently content to stand still as long as any one desired.
Martha broke into speech before Isabel had a chance to plant her foot upon the doorstep.
"Oh, Mrs. Grahame, the master! Mr. Cuthbert, ma'am!"
"Mr. Cuthbert, ma'am!" echoed Jane from the rear.
"Mr. Cuthbert? Well, what's the matter with Mr. Cuthbert? Let me come in, don't stand there blocking up the way! Do you hear, what's the matter with Mr. Cuthbert?"
"He's dead, ma'am-he's dead."
The words broke from both the girls in chorus.
"Dead? What do you mean? What nonsense are you talking? He was well enough when I went out. I've never seen him better."
"He's had an accident, ma'am, and it's killed him."
"Accident? How could he have an accident? Is Dr. Twelves in the house? Where is he?"
"The doctor is in Mr. Cuthbert's room. He's been there this half-hour and more."
She went upstairs to Mr. Cuthbert's room. Her pulse did not quicken; inwardly as well as outwardly she remained calm; she was a woman whose self-control was above the average; yet she was reluctant to enter that room. It was with an effort she induced herself to grip the handle; when she had done so she had to force herself to give it the necessary twist. Even then she lingered on the threshold.
"Who's there?" came the doctor's voice, in accents of inquiry. She showed herself.
"What's happened? What's the matter?"
The doctor was standing at the head of the bed. He had something in either hand. Instead of replying to her inquiries he looked at her from beneath his overhanging brows, as if he had been her accuser.
"Why do you look at me like that? Do you hear me ask you what has happened? Have you all lost your senses? Why don't you answer?" He waved his hand towards the bed. Her gaze followed his gesture, with an effort. She knew what she would see; she did not want to see it. Instantly her glance returned to the doctor.
"Is he-is he dead?"
"Quite dead."
"But I don't understand. When I left him he seemed brighter and better than I have ever seen him before."
"He's been killed."
"Killed! What do you mean, he's been killed?"
"Come here, I'll show you." She went a little closer, unwillingly. "Come this side of the bed." She did as he bade her, with leaden feet. "You see, the pillows have fallen; he's been choked."
"But how can they have fallen? They were all right when I left him. Has any one been in since?"
"Are you sure they were all right when you left him?"
"Perfectly sure. I tell you I have never seen him in better health or in brighter spirits."
"He could not have pushed them from under him himself."
"He might have done it in a fit."
"Perhaps; but it would have had to be a singular sort of a fit. You say you are sure they were in their usual position when you left him?"
"Why do you ask me that again? Why do you look at me like that, and speak in such a tone? Are you suggesting that I have had a hand in his death?"
"I am suggesting nothing."
"It seems to me that you are suggesting a good deal, which you dare not say right out. At least your manner is peculiar-but that it generally is. If you have anything to say, say it-like a man! – at once! Don't hint it, like a sneak. I hate your underhanded ways."
"I found this under his pillow-his one remaining pillow."
"It's his will. He made it this morning."
"So I am told by the two servants. I perceive it is in your writing. Did he dictate to you this document?"
"He did. I wrote it from his dictation, word for word as he told me. I wrote it yesterday afternoon. He read it through, and kept it under his pillow all night. He signed it this morning."
"It seems odd that, after completing such a will as this, he should have immediately died-in such a manner. If he could come to life again I wonder what he'd say."
"Give me that will, if you please, Dr. Twelves."
"Hadn't I better hand it to his lawyer for safe keeping?"
"His lawyer? His lawyer is now my lawyer; I will give all necessary instructions. The will will be in safe keeping with me. Give it me at once." He gave it her. "What have you in your other hand? Some more property of mine?"
"It is the miniature of the woman he loved best in the world. Don't you think it might go with him, in his coffin, to the grave?"
"Give it me. I will give all necessary instructions, as I have already told you. Your interference is not desired, nor will it be tolerated. To be quite frank with you, Dr. Twelves-it is always my desire to be frank and open-I have endured too much from you already; I will endure nothing more. The less I see, or hear, of you in the future the better I shall be pleased, since you are, in all respects, the most objectionable person I ever met. Don't you venture to intrude yourself again; if medical attendance is required it will be obtained elsewhere. I am now the mistress of this house-since there is no master, its mistress in the most literal sense. Everything is mine-everything. Be so good as to bear that in mind."
He looked at her, and smiled.
"I am not likely to forget that-ever."
She did not know which she liked least-his tone, his look, or his smile.
BOOK II
THE WIDOW
CHAPTER XV
"THE GORDIAN KNOT"
Mr. Talfourd twiddled the bunch of La France roses between his fingers with a smile which was scarcely one of satisfaction. They were very fine roses-in just that stage of bursting bud in which the La France is seen at its best. In London La France roses cost money, even when they are poor examples of their kind; those were good enough for exhibition. There were a great many of them, and they were tied about with a beautiful green ribbon, in charming contrast with the blooms. They had probably cost some one at least half a sovereign. They were for him; they had cost him nothing; yet they did not seem to afford him pleasure.
The fact was he was puzzled. He did not quite know what to make of the situation; what he did understand he did not like.
"This gets beyond a jest," he told himself. "Because I happened to mention, accidentally, that La France roses were my favourite flowers, I didn't expect to find a bouquet of them on my table every morning awaiting my arrival. Either it means something or it doesn't; either way I don't like it. I'm getting three hundred pounds a year in cash for doing I don't quite know what, and apparently half as much again in flowers. It won't do-it will not do." He gave the unoffending roses an impatient twirl. "The point of the joke is that when I said La France roses were my favourite flowers I was speaking a little beside the mark. I don't know that I have a favourite flower. They're Meg's-I was thinking of her at the time, as I generally am. I don't want Mrs. Lamb to think that she is giving me flowers, when she is really giving them to Meg, to whom I invariably pass them on. I don't know that she would really relish the notion of my giving her flowers to some one else. Confound her impudence!"
He threw the roses from him on to the table with a show of roughness which they, at any rate, had done nothing to deserve. As if conscious that his temper was being vented in the wrong quarter, picking them up again he regarded them with looks of whimsical self-reproach.
While he was still eyeing them the door was opened, and a masculine voice inquired from without-
"May I come in?"
Without waiting for a reply the inquirer entered. It was Mr. Gregory Lamb. A much more resplendent Gregory Lamb than the one whose acquaintance we have previously made. The Gregory Lamb we met in the wood was purely an affair of make-believe-not of very plausible make-believe. His attire then looked as if it wished you to think it had cost a great deal of money-but the trained eye knew better. There could be no doubt that everything about this Gregory Lamb was the most expensive of its kind-only the trained eye knew really how expensive. The impression he conveyed was that he had got as much on him in the way of money as he conveniently could-probably that impression was not far wrong. Yet the result was scarcely satisfactory. Especially was this shown to be the case when he brought himself into comparison with the man who was already in the room.
Both were young; both bore themselves well; both were good-looking; yet there could not be a moment's doubt as to which was the pleasanter to look upon. It was not only that one was obviously a gentleman, and the other just as obviously was not; nor was it that one looked a clever, an intellectual, man, and the other emphatically did not; still less was it an affair of costume, since Gregory Lamb was overdressed and Harry Talfourd's attire was simply plain and neat. It was something subtler than any of these things which made the one attractive and the other the reverse. Gregory Lamb had never made a friend worth having in all his life-and never would; Talfourd made friends wherever he went. He could not himself have said why; it was certainly not because he tried.
To begin with, Mr. Lamb's manner was unfortunate. His intention was to be on terms of hail-fellow-well-met with every one; to be no respecter of persons; to be "my dear chap" with Tom, Dick and Harry. As a matter of fact, there was an air of patronage about everything he said and did which was perhaps the more insufferable because unconscious. He came into the room with what he meant to be an air of jaunty geniality.
"All alone? I thought you would be. It's not your time for receiving visitors, is it? Just come; I heard you knock; must have time to breathe before you let them in-eh? Those are fine roses."
"They are not bad ones."
"Bad ones! – I should think they weren't. They oughtn't to be; I happen to know what my wife paid for them." He laughed, as if he sneered. "Sends you them every morning, doesn't she? Standing order, I hear. Talfourd, you're in luck."
Mr. Talfourd's manner was as cold as the other's was warm.
"Mrs. Lamb is very kind-kinder than I deserve."
"Perhaps she knows what you deserve better than you do-trust her, she's no simpleton. When she takes a fancy she has her reasons. I say, old man, I want you to do me a favour."
"I shall be happy to do you a service if I can."
"There's no doubt about the can-not the least in the world-you'll find that it's as easy as winking. I want you to get my wife to let me go for a little run to Monte Carlo."
"I beg your pardon? – I don't understand."
"It's this way. I'll be frank with you, Talfourd. I look upon you as a friend, my boy. I can't go without cash; I'm stony-broke; my wife holds the money-bags. You tell her-you know how!" – Mr. Lamb winked-"that you think the run would do me good, and tell her to give me a thousand to do it with, and-I'll do as much for you one day, upon my soul I will."
Mr. Talfourd stared at the speaker in undisguised amazement.
"You credit me with powers of persuasion which are altogether beyond any I possess."
"Oh no, I don't" – Mr. Lamb laughed again-"I know better than that! You tell her what I've asked you to tell her, and I bet you anything I cross by to-night's boat, with notes for a thousand in my pocket. She'd send me to the North Pole at a hint from you."
There was scarcely such a friendly expression on Mr. Talfourd's face as on the other's.
"Are you not forgetting that Mrs. Lamb is my employer? that I am merely her servant since I receive her wages?"
"Her servant?" – the laugh again-"I hope she doesn't overwork you. Come, Talfourd, be the good sort you are, help a lame dog over a stile. I'm spoiling for a flutter, and I'm dead sure that the only chance I have of getting it is by means of a helping word from you."
"You must excuse me, Mr. Lamb. I am engaged to do clerical work for Mrs. Lamb. I should not presume to speak to her on the subject you have mentioned."
"Presume? – what ho! Now Talfourd, you're no kid any more than I am. You know as well as I do that you can twist my wife round your finger. All I want you to do is to give her a twist for my particular benefit."
"I can give you no answer but the one I have already given."
"Oh yes, you can-and you will. I'll look in for it to-morrow morning-by that time you'll have thought it over. You're not so crusty as you make yourself out to be. That'll be four-and-twenty hours clean thrown away; and when you're spoiling for a burst like I am, that's a deuce of time. But I shall have every confidence in your kind offices when you've had a chance to see just what I'm driving at."
When Mr. Lamb had retired Mr. Talfourd seemed unhappy.
"Every time that man talks to me I want to kick him. I wonder if he affects other people in the same way-the unmentionable animal! If, as the husband of his wife, he thinks himself entitled to talk to me like that, it's time for me to think things over. I must know where I am moving. Three hundred pounds are three hundred pounds-I know that as well as any one-but they may be earned too dearly. It is one thing to be Mrs. Lamb's secretary, quite another to be-" He did not finish the sentence even mentally. Sitting down to the table he drew towards him the little heap of correspondence which was supposed to justify his secretarial existence. There were about a dozen envelopes, mostly containing circulars of different kinds. "I believe that the letters are examined, and any of the slightest importance retained, before they are sent to me. The idea of my receiving three hundred pounds a year for opening circulars is too thin."
While he sat with both elbows on the table, staring ruefully in front of him, the door opened again, and Mrs. Lamb came in.
"At work? I hope I'm not disturbing you."
She had changed more than her husband, whether for the better or for the worse was not easy to determine. So far as appearance went she had become a much better imitation of a lady. Society, or what with her passed as society, had smoothed away some of the angles. She had the air of a woman who had to do with many persons of different sorts, and had learned to adapt herself to them all. One felt that she was probably a popular character on the stage on which she had chosen to perform-successful, at least within certain limits. One did not wonder that it was so, if only because, in her own way, she was good to look at.
That way, however, did not happen to be Mr. Talfourd's-which was unfortunate. Indeed, she inspired him with a curious feeling. He was afraid of her. It seemed absurd, but he was. For one thing, he realised that she was not only a clever, an unusually clever woman, but that her cleverness lay in a direction in which he was incompetent, and would perhaps prefer to be. Again, he felt that she read him like an open book, knew him to his finger-tips, while she was beyond his comprehension-where, again, he would possibly prefer her to remain. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that she saw in him something which was not savoury; that her keenest glances were continually directed on his weakest points; that it would please her to find him an undesirable creature. He had no overt cause to suppose this was so. So far she had been to him nothing but a friend-a friend in need. But on such a point even the vaguest shadow of a doubt was disquieting.
He rose as she came in.
"It is not possible for you to disturb me-I wish it were."
"You wish it were? Why?"
"Because in that case I should be really doing some genuine work-which I never am. My post is too much of a sinecure; my conscience will not allow me to remain your secretary much longer if there continues to be nothing to do."
"You want something to do? You shall have it-very soon-at least, I think so. I have been reading your play."
"My play?"
He had noticed that she was carrying in her hand what looked like some typewritten MSS., in brown-paper covers. Now, with a start, he recognised them as his own.
"'The Gordian Knot.' Mr. Winton gave it me to read."
"Winton! What right-"
He was about to ask what right Winton had to do anything of the kind, but perceiving that that would scarcely be a civil inquiry, he stopped, not, however, before she understood what had been on the tip of his tongue.
"Mr. Winton had every right to give it me to read, as, I think, you will yourself admit when I explain. I have, of course, known for a long time that Mr. Winton would like to commence management on his own account. The other afternoon he told me that he had a play which he would produce at once if he could only find some one who would furnish at any rate part of the necessary capital. I asked by whom it was. He said, 'It's by a man named Talfourd-Harry Talfourd'. You may easily believe that that did arouse my interest." She said this in a tone which seemed to make him go all over pins and needles; it was almost as if she had caressed him. "I mentioned to Mr. Winton that, given certain conditions, it was possible that I might be tempted to enter into such a speculation. He offered to send me the MS. It reached me yesterday. I read it last night and again this morning-not once, but three or four times. Mr. Talfourd, it's first-rate."