“Why do you want us to go inside?” asked Arthur Inglewood, in whose red brow and rough brown hair botheration seemed to have reached its limit.

“I want the rest to go in,” said Michael in a clear voice, “because I want the whole of this garden in which to talk to you.”

There was an atmosphere of irrational doubt; it was really getting colder, and a night wind had begun to wave the one or two trees in the twilight.  Dr. Warner, however, spoke in a voice devoid of indecision.

“I refuse to listen to any such proposal,” he said; “you have lost this ruffian, and I must find him.”

“I don’t ask you to listen to any proposal,” answered Moon quietly; “I only ask you to listen.”

He made a silencing movement with his hand, and immediately the whistling noise that had been lost in the dark streets on one side of the house could be heard from quite a new quarter on the other side.  Through the night-maze of streets the noise increased with incredible rapidity, and the next moment the flying hoofs and flashing wheels had swept up to the blue-railed gate at which they had originally stood.  Mr. Smith got down from his perch with an air of absent-mindedness, and coming back into the garden stood in the same elephantine attitude as before.

“Get inside! get inside!” cried Moon hilariously, with the air of one shooing a company of cats.  “Come, come, be quick about it!  Didn’t I tell you I wanted to talk to Inglewood?”

How they were all really driven into the house again it would have been difficult afterwards to say.  They had reached the point of being exhausted with incongruities, as people at a farce are ill with laughing, and the brisk growth of the storm among the trees seemed like a final gesture of things in general.  Inglewood lingered behind them, saying with a certain amicable exasperation, “I say, do you really want to speak to me?”

“I do,” said Michael, “very much.”

Night had come as it generally does, quicker than the twilight had seemed to promise.  While the human eye still felt the sky as light gray, a very large and lustrous moon appearing abruptly above a bulk of roofs and trees, proved by contrast that the sky was already a very dark gray indeed.  A drift of barren leaves across the lawn, a drift of riven clouds across the sky, seemed to be lifted on the same strong and yet laborious wind.

“Arthur,” said Michael, “I began with an intuition; but now I am sure.  You and I are going to defend this friend of yours before the blessed Court of Beacon, and to clear him too—­clear him of both crime and lunacy.  Just listen to me while I preach to you for a bit.”  They walked up and down the darkening garden together as Michael Moon went on.

“Can you,” asked Michael, “shut your eyes and see some of those queer old hieroglyphics they stuck up on white walls in the old hot countries.  How stiff they were in shape and yet how gaudy in colour.  Think of some alphabet of arbitrary figures picked out in black and red, or white and green, with some old Semitic crowd of Nosey Gould’s ancestors staring at it, and try to think why the people put it up at all.”