"--went off his nut, he used to consort a good deal with his friends on his own side--visit 'em, y' know, and deliver addresses out of their own bedroom windows, and steal their postcards, and generally be friendly. Well, one man he stayed with had a house, a country house, y' know, and in the garden there was a path which was supposed to divide Kent and Surrey or some counties. They led the old man forth for his walk, y' know, and followed him in gangs to hear that the weather was fine, and of course his host pointed out the path, the old man took in the situation, and put one I daresay they had strewn rose-leaves on it, or spread it with homespun trousers. Anyhow, one leg on one side of the path and the other on the other, and with one of those wonderful flashes of humour that come to him when he chooses to frisk among his friends, he said: 'Now I am in Kent and in Surrey at the same time.'" Captain Kydd ceased speaking as the cab tried to force a way into the South Kensington Museum. "Well, what's there in that?" said the eminent novelist. "Oh, nothing much. Let's see how it goes afterwards. Mrs. Gladstone, who was close behind him, turned round and whispered to the hostess in an ecstatic shriek: 'Oh, Mrs. Whateverhernamewas, you _will_ plant a tree there, won't you?'" "By Jove!" said the young gentleman with the pink eyes. "I don't believe it," said the eminent novelist. I said nothing, but it seemed very likely. Captain Kydd laughed: "Well, I don't consider that sort of atmosphere exactly wholesome, y' know." And when the cab had landed us in the drinking-fountain in High Street, Kensington, and the horse fell down, and the cabby collected our half-crowns and gave us his beery blessing, and I had to grope my way home on foot, it occurred to me that perhaps you might be interested in that anecdote. As I have said, it explains a great deal more than appears at first sight. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 22: "Turnovers," No. IX.] A DEATH IN THE CAMP[23] Two awful catastrophes have occurred. One Englishman in London is dead, and I have scandalised about twenty of his nearest and dearest friends. He was a man nearly seventy years old, engaged in the business of an architect, and immensely respected. That was all I knew about him till I began to circulate among his friends in these parts, trying to cheer them up and make them forget the fog. "Hush!" said a man and his wife. "Don't you know he died yesterday of a sudden attack of pneumonia? Isn't it shocking?" "Yes," said I vaguely. "Aw'fly shocking. Has he left his wife provided for?" "Oh, he's very well off indeed, and his wife is quite old. But just think--it was only in the next street it happened!" Then I saw that their grief was not for Strangeways, deceased, but for themselves. "How old was he?" I said. "Nearly seventy, or maybe a little over."