Mr Forfar would have been surprised to learn that his kindly letter served but to inflict on its recipient torments worse than those of Tantalus. If the offer had only arrived yesterday, Mansfield reflected bitterly, he might have spoken to Philippa in time to forestall her royal suitor--but no, it did not turn up until Philippa was beyond his reach. That was how things always happened, he assured himself, for misfortune was developing in him the usual touch of cynicism. For a short time he had visions of accepting the post and returning to England forthwith, throwing himself into his new work with an ardour that carried all before it. He saw himself entering the House, backed by Mr Forfar’s influence and the prestige of his own reputation as a man with an unusual and practical knowledge of European politics, saw himself, equally famous as a thinker and a debater, accepting office and rising to giddy heights of power--and this was all undertaken for the sake of convincing the faithless Philippa that the true lover whom she had cast off to obtain a throne would have been able to give her something more than the love she despised. Unfortunately for Mansfield’s political future, his heart took fright instantly at the idea of leaving Syria while Philippa remained there. He must be on the spot, even if it was only to witness the complete destruction of his hopes. It is possible, also, that those hopes were not yet quite so absolutely dead as he imagined. “I won’t answer this at once,” he said, thrusting the letter into his pocket, and turned to some notes which he was to write out for Cyril. He had scarcely sat down when he was interrupted by the Chevalier, who emerged from the inner room in a state of wild disorder. When he had asked to see Cyril, Mansfield had observed that he appeared to be labouring under great emotion, but now he seemed to have been tearing both his hair and his clothes. He dropped into a chair opposite Mansfield, and smote his forehead with his hands. “De finest brain in Europe, and de stronk defence off Zion!” he murmured. “I beg your pardon?” said Mansfield, astonished. “You do not know? you hef not heard? All we hef done iss in fain, and Israel may return to deir keptifity to-morrow.” “What has gone wrong?” Mansfield asked the question with great anxiety. “Your master can plen no more; his brain iss inchured. And we, wid our scheme on de point of fulfilment, are left desolate.” “That break-down the other day!” cried Mansfield. “Yes, det must hef been de first menifestation off de melady. Ach, Mortimer, my frient, I could always trust in you! While you lifed, Zion was safe. And now you life still, but your mind iss dead. No, no,” as Mansfield started up frantically, “dere iss no medness. He can do eferythink but plen, but so can all de rest. Our head iss gone.” “And now that he can’t help you, you care no more about him?”