`O vivid, inviolate head,
Ringed —­’

But I think that a wide study of the worst modern poets will enable us to guess that `ringed with a glory of red,’ or `ringed with its passionate red,’ was the line that rhymed to `head.’  In this case once more, therefore, there is good reason to suppose that Smith fell in love with a girl with some sort of auburn or darkish-red hair—­rather,” he said, looking down at the table, “rather like Miss Gray’s hair.”

Cyrus Pym was leaning forward with lowered eyelids, ready with one of his more pedantic interpellations; but Moses Gould suddenly struck his forefinger on his nose, with an expression of extreme astonishment and intelligence in his brilliant eyes.

“Mr. Moon’s contention at present,” interposed Pym, “is not, even if veracious, inconsistent with the lunatico-criminal view of I. Smith, which we have nailed to the mast.  Science has long anticipated such a complication.  An incurable attraction to a particular type of physical woman is one of the commonest of criminal per-versities, and when not considered narrowly, but in the light of induction and evolution—­”

“At this late stage,” said Michael Moon very quietly, “I may perhaps relieve myself of a simple emotion that has been pressing me throughout the proceedings, by saying that induction and evolution may go and boil themselves.  The Missing Link and all that is well enough for kids, but I’m talking about things we know here.  All we know of the Missing Link is that he is missing—­and he won’t be missed either.  I know all about his human head and his horrid tail; they belong to a very old game called `Heads I win, tails you lose.’  If you do find a fellow’s bones, it proves he lived a long while ago; if you don’t find his bones, it proves how long ago he lived.  That is the game you’ve been playing with this Smith affair.  Because Smith’s head is small for his shoulders you call him microcephalous; if it had been large, you’d have called it water-on-the-brain.  As long as poor old Smith’s seraglio seemed pretty various, variety was the sign of madness:  now, because it’s turning out to be a bit monochrome—­now monotony is the sign of madness.  I suffer from all the disadvantages of being a grown-up person, and I’m jolly well going to get some of the advantages too; and with all politeness I propose not to be bullied with long words instead of short reasons, or consider your business a triumphant progress merely because you’re always finding out that you were wrong.  Having relieved myself of these feelings, I have merely to add that I regard Dr. Pym as an ornament to the world far more beautiful than the Parthenon, or the monument on Bunker’s Hill, and that I propose to resume and conclude my remarks on the many marriages of Mr. Innocent Smith.