“Vastly,” said I.

He pulled out of his breast pocket an enormous gilt-bound pocket-book, bearing a gilt monogram of such size that it looked like a cartouche on an architectural panel, and selected therefrom three cards which he gravely distributed among us.  They bore the legend: 

PROFESSOR ANASTASIUS PAPADOPOULOS

GOLD AND SILVER MEDALLIST

THE CAT KING

LE ROI DES CHATS

DER KATZEN KONIG

London Agents:  MESSRS.  CONTO & BLAG,

172 Maiden Lane, W.C.

“There,” said he, “I am always to be found, should you ever require my services.  I have a masterpiece in my head.  I come on to the scene like Bacchus drawn by my two cats.  How are the cats to draw my heavy weight?  I’ll have a noiseless clockwork arrangement that will really propel the car.  You must come and see it.”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” said Dale, who stood looking down on the Liliputian egotist with polite wonder.  Lola Brandt glanced at him apologetically.

“You mustn’t mind him, Dale.  He has only two ideas in his head, his cats and myself.  He’s devoted to me.”

“I don’t think I shall be jealous,” said Dale in a low voice.

“Foolish boy!” she whispered.

During the love scene, which was conducted in English, a language which Mr. Papadopoulos evidently did not understand, the dwarf scowled at Dale and twirled his moustache fiercely.  In order to attract Madame Brandt’s attention he fetched a packet of papers from his pocket and laid them with a flourish on the tea-table.

“Here are the documents,” said he.

“What documents?”

“A full inquiry into the circumstances attending the death of Madame Brandt’s horse Sultan.”

“Have you found out anything, Anastasius?” she asked, in the indulgent tone in which one addresses an eager child.

“Not exactly,” said he.  “But I have a conviction that by this means the murderer will be brought to justice.  To this I have devoted my life—­in your service.”

He put his hand on the spot of his tightly buttoned frock-coat that covered his heart, and bowed profoundly.  It was obvious that he resented our presence and desired to wipe us out of our hostess’s consideration.  I glanced ironically at Dale’s disgusted face, and smiled at the imperfect development of his sense of humour.  Indeed, to the young, humour is only a weapon of offence.  It takes a philosopher to use it as defensive armour.  Dale burned to outdo Mr. Papadopoulos.  I, having no such ambition, laid my hand on his arm and went forward to take my leave.

“Madame Brandt,” said I, “old friends have doubtless much to talk over.  I thank you for the privilege you have afforded me of making your acquaintance.”