I said “What?” like a fool. She tried to push me inside the doorway. I was looking at her, not at Julian Raphael. I didn’t understand. There was a scream from the twilight: “Mind out, Manana!” Manana jumped in front of me. That’s all. I held her as she fell backward. She just sighed. “Manana!” the voice screamed again. Oh, in terror! The knife was up to the hilt in her throat. I think I lost my head completely for the first time in my life. I made a dash towards the figure in the opening of Lansdowne Passage. He didn’t move, didn’t even see me coming. He was sobbing like a baby. Then I changed my mind and rushed back to Manana. Lay a flower on a pavement in the rain, and you have Manana as I last saw her. Her eyelids fluttered once or twice. The rain was washing the blood from her throat into the gutter. My man had come down and was doing his best. I looked through the twilight at the crumpled black figure against the iron bar. “She’s dead, Raphael!” I called, whispering to my man: “Go get him!” He did his best, poor devil. Raphael yelled: “Yes, for you! And I’ll never throw but one more knife--but I’ll do that if I have to come back from hell to do it!” He was gone, through Lansdowne Passage. My wretched man hadn’t a chance. That night and for days there wasn’t a port in England that H---- left unwatched for Julian Raphael. But, as in the story-books, he has never been seen or heard of again. H---- has an idea he is somewhere in the Americas. But it’s not quite true (the Admiral added) that Julian Raphael has never been seen or heard of again. I have seen him and heard him, quite lately--in a sort of way. Of course, it can be no more than a trick of the imagination. He has probably been more on my mind recently than I had realised. But the illusion is quite definitely vivid and unpleasant. And I can tell you it gets rather on a man’s nerves, this comic talk of knives on Piccadilly. Imagination, Hilary, can play us queer dark tricks sometimes. And it’s no good trying to explain them with spirit talk. The mind is a dark place and we don’t know what’s in the sky and that’s all there is to it. * * * * * Mr. Townshend had listened gravely. A grey man, of the type conscientiously sad, Mr. Townshend found no aspect of this our life on earth which was not a proper occasion for the exercise of gravity, command of temper and forbearance. He therefore forbore to make any comment on his friend’s tale, but merely remarked: “You ought not to stay in London, Charles. An unhealthy place, at best. Why not come down to Magralt with me to-morrow? Guy de Travest is coming. There’s some fishing. Not much, and that little is poor, but you can always smoke in peace.” Sir Charles laughed. “You talk like Manana! But, anyhow, I am due at Portsmouth the day after to-morrow. No, no, I’ll see my time out in London. I’ve been in most corners of the world, Hilary, and never found romance but in London.”