He finished, and Leacraft drawn into a reverie over the singular confession, which was anything but reassuring, and partook, to his mind, of the dementia of the foolish victim of a depraved habit, was silent. He felt the imperious requirements of speech, but he could say nothing. He felt pity, he was not without sympathy, though perhaps in that matter, a certain savor of self denying control, and a practical judgment interfered with his approval of the hyperbole of the speaker. And, almost dreaming, he stood there while the stranger and his lady re-entered their carriage, to which the runaway horse had been reattached, and drove off. Leacraft watched them mechanically and then turned, walked down Piccadilly, crossed Green Park, and looked at Buckingham Palace. The huge structure was partially illuminated, and the square in front of it was filled with soldiers, many of whom were at rest around the Victoria Memorial. To an officer lounging near by, Leacraft said, “Can you tell me where the King is to-night?” “He sleeps at St. Leonards in Shoreditch,” was the laconic reply. CHAPTER IX. THE SPECTACLE. It was two days later than the events narrated above, that Leacraft and Thomsen, with Miss Tobit between them, sat in a crowded window on Hammersmith road watching for the enormous procession that had been slowly winding through London, with offices and services, halts and functions, as the King sadly led the departure of the English people from the Mother of Nations. And the vast pageant approached. Down Kensington road its first glittering sallies were seen, the block of London police, a gorgeous cavalcade behind them of the peers of the realm, and in the immeasurable distance the shimmering parts, that looked stationary, and yet were coming on with ample speed. The blaring trumpets in the bands drew near, the street was cleared from curb to curb, the dense assemblage, covering stoop and roof, and leaning from every window became silent, the reiterated thud of the falling feet was heard, and in an instant the marching host was passing beneath them. The police and the peers of the realm passed in silence or with barely noticeable tokens of recognition. The peers presented a dazzling array, on superbly caparisoned horses, and in the regalia of their separate stations, with a bearing of unmistakable dignity, and possessing in a large measure the impress and gift of English manly beauty, they uttered the note of _caste_. Behind them came the marshalled Church, a wonderful picture; choirs of boys, surpliced and gowned, in open carriages, priests and bishops, in their robes of office, with flying standards of chapel, church or cathedral, golden lambs, crosses and crowns, figures and mottes on white silk or ruby silk, in wavering confusion, while hymns in wavering sopranos rose petulantly, or again with sustained vitality and strength. It appealed to the people strangely. They became very still, and faces contorted with sobs, or