“_With an host of furious fancies,_ _Whereof I am commander,_ _With a burning spear_ _And a horse of air_ _To the wilderness I wander._” “You will,” said the policeman. “Oh, you will!” “_By a knight of ghosts and shadows_ _I summoned am to tourney_ _Ten leagues beyond_ _The wide world’s end--_ _Methinks it is no journey!_” “Not to Vine Street, it isn’t,” said the policeman. “Ho there!” cried the approaching voice. “Who dares interrupt my song!” “Beau Maturin!” cried Mr. Trevor gladly. “It’s not you! Bravo, Beau Maturin! Sing, bless you, sing! For I am depressed.” “_From Heaven’s Gate to Hampstead Heath_ _Young Bacchus and his crew_ _Came tumbling down, and o’er the town_ _Their bursting trumpets blew._” “Fine big gent, your friend,” said the policeman thoughtfully. “_And when they heard that happy word_ _Policemen leapt and ambled:_ _The busmen pranced, the maidens danced,_ _The men in bowlers gambolled._” “Big!” said Mr. Trevor. “Big? Let me tell you, constable, that the last time Mr. Maturin hit Jack Dempsey, Dempsey bounced back from the floor so quick that he knocked Mr. Maturin out on the rebound.” Mr. Trevor says that Beau Maturin came on through the night like an avenger through a wilderness, so little did he reck of cruel moons and rude policemen. Said he: “Good evening, Ralph. Good evening, constable. Lo, I am in wine!” “You’ve said it,” said the policeman. “Gently, my dear! Or,” said Mr. Maturin cordially, “I will dot you one, and look at it which way you like it is a far, far better thing to be in wine than in a hospital. Now, are there any good murders going to-night?” “Going?” said the constable. “I’m ’ere to see there ain’t any coming. But I’ve just been telling this gent about some recent crises. Corpses slit to ribbons just as you or me might slit up a vealanam----” “Don’t say that again!” snapped Mr. Trevor. “By Heaven, what’s that?” sighed Mr. Maturin; and, following his intent eyes, they saw, a yard or so behind them on the pavement, a something that glittered in the moonlight. Mr. Trevor says that, without a thought for his own safety, he instantly took a step towards the thing, but that the policeman restrained him. It was Mr. Maturin who picked the thing up. The policeman whistled thoughtfully. “A razor, let’s face it!” whispered Beau Maturin. “_And_ sharp!” said the policeman, thoughtfully testing the glittering blade with the ball of his thumb. Mr. Trevor says that he was never in his life less conscious of any feeling of excitement. He merely pointed out that he could swear there had been no razor there when he had come round the corner, and that, while he had stood there, no one had passed behind him.