“The deuce you say,” protested Allyne in spite of the signal from Travers. “Why, we came ahead of him expressly.” “Shut up, Allyne,” broke in Travers. “Fair knows that we are here, Mr. Marshall—in fact, we came rather at his suggestion. He gave us full permission to speak to you.” “I shall, of course, be very glad to hear anything that you may deem it desirable to tell me. Pray proceed,” said Marshall not very eagerly. “Well, then, sir, it is with the utmost sorrow that we have to tell you that we are convinced poor Fair has become suddenly insane on a certain dreadful subject,” went on Travers, irritated by Marshall’s manner. “Ah, there we shall have to move very slowly—very—slowly,” said Marshall when Travers stopped. “Mr. Fair is thought to be of unsound mind on a number of subjects by a number of persons. He is so successful, you know—so original, that others who are merely British fail to understand him. Moreover, Fair is unselfish, sympathetic, altruistic—and of course appears mad to our smug, hoggish world.” “Damn it,” exclaimed Allyne, “that’s all, as you say, but the dear fellow has gone clean off his head this time, you know. You just wait until Travers gives you the details.” “I am waiting,” answered Marshall calmly. “Before we come to that,” said Travers in answer to Marshall’s look, “I believe, Mr. Marshall, that you knew Fair’s father, did you not?” “Intimately—and his grandfather also. What of them?” “What sort were they?” “Very much like Fair—both were thought mad.” “In what way? They were men of tremendous will power and fixity of purpose, were they not? I have reason for asking.” “Quite so. They were idealists, dreamers, monomaniacs—but why?” “I thought as much. The stuff martyrs are made of. Tell us about them, if you don’t mind, Mr. Marshall,” said Travers, unaccountably insistent. “Very well,” began Marshall, really glad to be able thus to kill time until Fair arrived. “His grandfather got it into his head that he was bound in honor to extricate his publishers—he was an author, you know—from their financial difficulties, although it was clearly proved in court that they had only their own speculative folly to thank for their failure. Well, poor old Fair lost his all and even mortgaged the Norfolk estates. In spite of his solicitors, he pressed forward eagerly to ruin, and died perfectly happy in the knowledge that he had lived up to his ideal. Mad—stark mad!” “By Jove, it sounds like Fair all over again!” exclaimed Allyne.