“Oh, since then, I’ve travelled and seen the world. There’s damned little equality going about. Mind you, I still believe in democracy. But you’ve got to force it on people with a strong hand—ram it down their throats. Men don’t want to be brothers—they may some day, but they don’t now. My final belief in the Brotherhood of Man died the day I arrived in London last week, when I observed the people standing in a Tube train resolutely refuse to move up and make room for those who entered. You won’t turn people into angels by appealing to their better natures just yet awhile—but by judicious force you can coerce them into behaving more or less decently to one another to go on with. I still believe in the Brotherhood of Man, but it’s not coming yet awhile. Say another ten thousand years or so. It’s no good being impatient. Evolution is a slow process.” “I’m very interested in these views of yours, sir,” said Battle with a twinkle. “And if you’ll allow me to say so, I’m sure you’ll make a very fine King out there.” “Thank you, Battle,” said Anthony with a sigh. “You don’t seem very happy about it, sir?” “Oh, I don’t know. I dare say it will be rather fun. But it’s tying oneself down to regular work. I’ve always avoided that before.” “But you consider it your duty, I suppose, sir?” “Good Lord, no! What an idea. It’s a woman—it’s always a woman, Battle. I’d do more than be a King for her sake.” “Quite so, sir.” “I’ve arranged it so that the Baron and Isaacstein can’t kick. The one wants a King and the other wants oil. They’ll both get what they want, and I’ve got—Oh, Lord, Battle, have you ever been in love?” “I am much attached to Mrs. Battle, sir.” “Much attached to Mrs.—Oh, you don’t know what I’m talking about! It’s entirely different!” “Excuse me, sir, that man of yours is waiting outside the window.” “Boris? So he is. He’s a wonderful fellow. It’s a mercy that pistol went off in the struggle and killed the lady. Otherwise Boris would have wrung her neck as sure as Fate, and then you would have wanted to hang him. His attachment to the Obolovitch dynasty is remarkable. The queer thing was that as soon as Michael was dead he attached himself to me—and yet he couldn’t possibly have known who I really was.” “Instinct,” said Battle. “Like a dog.” “Very awkward instinct I thought it at the time. I was afraid it might give the show away to you. I suppose I’d better see what he wants.” He went out through the window. Superintendent Battle, left alone, looked after him for a minute, then apparently addressed the panelling. “He’ll do,” said Superintendent Battle. Outside, Boris explained himself. “Master,” said he, and led the way along the terrace. Anthony followed him, wondering what was forward. Presently Boris stopped and pointed with his forefinger. It was moonlight, and in front of them was a stone seat on which sat two figures. “He _is_ a dog,” said Anthony to himself. “And what’s more, a pointer!”