At the end of a campaign, instead of seeking the seductions of hero-worshipping London, Routledge would drift, possibly disguised, into some Indian hot-bed, there to study language, occultism, Borgian poisons, or Cleopatran perfumes. Tales of his ways and his work took the place of his presence at home in times of peace. Some traveller coming in from afar would relate how Routledge had smiled through a six-day water-famine; how Routledge had missed the native knives which find so often the source of human fountains in the dark. It was whispered, and accredited, that the Brahmins called him _One_; that they remembered him as great and distinguished and of sacerdotal caste in some former incarnation, and were loyal still. This is an honor so great that there are not five score men in all the occident who adequately can appreciate it. Mother India is sensitive to the warming currents of a great man, even though he be a derelict in the world. Routledge had made the English-speaking world utter his name familiarly and to look for the same in public prints. For this reason, Finacune, with his typewriter on his lap, an American _poncho_ spread upon the turf beneath him, his back against a stone, and a lantern at his elbow, rained a column upon his machine. Finishing the work with a half-smile, he hooted aloud: “Oh, Routledge--see what comes o’ riding alone! In a month or six weeks, God loving the mails, the _Word_ will publish: ‘The civilian mess was joined to-night by that young roving planet, Cosmo Routledge, who in present and former campaigns has driven straight to the source of exclusive information and pulled the hole in after him.’ Then, for a stick or two, I have discussed the great frieze coat,” Finacune added whimsically, “described the prophet’s brow, the slender hands of swift eloquence, and the sad, ineffable eyes of Routledge, born of America, a correspondent for the British, a citizen of the world, at home in India, and mystic of the wars.” “Just add,” Cardinegh remarked meltingly, “that his heart beats for Ireland.” That was a marvellous night. Big natures throbbed in rhythm. Whiskey as it sometimes will--the devil of it--brought out the brave and true and tender of human speech. Routledge told a bit of the story of the great frieze coat.... They were moments of trampling violence in the narrative; instants of torrid romance--to which the wearer had been a witness or a listener.... “Ah, they made cloth in those days,” old Jerry sighed. “Would you look under the collar of it for the name of the old Belfast maker?” “It’s there, sure enough,” said Routledge, “as Tyrone is water-marked in the great Cardinegh scroll.” Jerry did not answer for a moment. His face looked singularly white in the dark.