was certain that on one particular morning in October he (the gardener) had come round the corner of the house carrying the hose, had seen Mr. Smith standing on the lawn in a striped red and white jacket (which might have been his smoking-jacket, but was quite as like a part of his pyjamas), and had heard him then and there call out to his wife, who was looking out of the bedroom window on to the garden, these decisive and very loud expressions—­

“I won’t stay here any longer.  I’ve got another wife and much better children a long way from here.  My other wife’s got redder hair than yours, and my other garden’s got a much finer situation; and I’m going off to them.”

With these words, apparently, he sent the rake flying far up into the sky, higher than many could have shot an arrow, and caught it again.  Then he cleared the hedge at a leap and alighted on his feet down in the lane below, and set off up the road without even a hat.  Much of the picture was doubtless supplied by Inglewood’s accidental memory of the place.  He could see with his mind’s eye that big bare-headed figure with the ragged rake swaggering up the crooked woodland road, and leaving lamp-post and pillar-box behind.  But the gardener, on his own account, was quite prepared to swear to the public confession of bigamy, to the temporary disappearance of the rake in the sky, and the final disappearance of the man up the road.  Moreover, being a local man, he could swear that, beyond some local rumours that Smith had embarked on the south-eastern coast, nothing was known of him again.

This impression was somewhat curiously clinched by Michael Moon in the few but clear phrases in which he opened the defence upon the third charge.  So far from denying that Smith had fled from Croydon and disappeared on the Continent, he seemed prepared to prove all this on his own account.  “I hope you are not so insular,” he said, “that you will not respect the word of a French innkeeper as much as that of an English gardener.  By Mr. Inglewood’s favour we will hear the French innkeeper.”

Before the company had decided the delicate point Inglewood was already reading the account in question.  It was in French.  It seemed to them to run something like this:—­

“Sir,—­Yes; I am Durobin of Durobin’s Cafe on the sea-front at Gras, rather north of Dunquerque.  I am willing to write all I know of the stranger out of the sea.

“I have no sympathy with eccentrics or poets.  A man of sense looks for beauty in things deliberately intended to be beautiful, such as a trim flower-bed or an ivory statuette.  One does not permit beauty to pervade one’s whole life, just as one does not pave all the roads with ivory or cover all the fields with geraniums.  My faith, but we should miss the onions!

“But whether I read things backwards through my memory, or whether there are indeed atmospheres of psychology which the eye of science cannot as yet pierce, it is the humiliating fact that on that particular evening I felt like a poet—­like any little rascal of a poet who drinks absinthe in the mad Montmartre.