“But the guard!” said Bat. “There’s an armed guard kept there by the lawyer.” “We can arrange about the guard,” said the other. “Why not get at the lawyer?” It was Curt Goyle who made the suggestion. The stranger frowned. “The lawyer cannot be got at,” he said shortly. “Now, are you with me?” There was no need to ask. Connor was sorting the notes into little bundles on the table, and the men came up one by one, took their money, and after a few words with Connor took their leave, with an awkward salutation to the stranger. Bat was the last to go. “To-morrow night--here,” muttered Connor. He was left alone with the newcomer, save for the old man, who hadn’t changed his attitude, and was still in the midst of some imaginary conversation. “Who is this?” the stranger demanded. Connor smiled. “An old chap as mad as a March hare. A gentleman, too, and a scholar; talks all sorts of mad languages--Latin and Greek and the Lord knows what. He’s been a schoolmaster, I should say, and what brought him down to this--drink or drugs or just ordinary madness--I don’t know.” The stranger looked with interest at the unconscious man, and old George, as if suddenly realizing that he was under scrutiny, woke up with a start and sat blinking at the other. Then he shuffled slowly to his feet and peered closely into the stranger’s face, all the time sustaining his mumbled conversation. “Ah,” he said in a voice rising from its inaudibility, “a gentleman! Pleased to meet you, sir, pleased to meet you. _Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis_, but you have not changed.” He relapsed again into mutterings. “I have never met him before,” the stranger said, turning to Connor. “Oh, old George always thinks he has met people,” said Connor with a grin. “A gentleman,” old George muttered, “every inch a gentleman, and a munificent patron. He bought a copy of my book--you have read it? It is called--dear me, I have forgotten what it is called--and sent to consult me in his--ah!--anagram----” “What?” The stranger’s face was ashen, and he gripped Connor by the arm. “Listen, listen!” he whispered fiercely. Old George threw up his head again and stared blandly at the stranger. “A perfect gentleman,” he said with pathetic insolence, “invariably addressing me as the ‘professor’--a most delicate and gentlemanly thing to do.” He pointed a triumphant finger to the stranger. “I know you!” he cried shrilly, and his cracked laugh rang through the room. “Spedding, that’s your name! Lawyer, too. I saw you in the carriage of my patron.” “The book, the book!” gasped Spedding. “What was the name of your book?” Old George’s voice had dropped to its normal level when he replied with extravagant courtesy-- “That is the one thing, sir, I can never remember.” CHAPTER IX THE GREAT ATTEMPT