Well, I fetched him, half-shaved, and the rest of the business may be imagined.  It is a very fine thing to be a hero with a big H. Henceforth (thanks to me) that was Charlie Scroope’s lot in life.  He has grandchildren now, and they all think him a hero.  What is more, he does not contradict them.  I went down to the lady’s place in Essex, a fine property with a beautiful old house.  On the night I arrived there was a dinner-party of twenty-four people.  I had to make a speech about Charlie Scroope and the leopard.  I think it was a good speech.  At any rate everybody cheered, including the servants, who had gathered at the back of the big hall.

I remember that to complete the story I introduced several other leopards, a mother and two three-part-grown cubs, also a wounded buffalo, and told how Mr. Scroope finished them off one after the other with a hunting knife.  The thing was to watch his face as the history proceeded.  Luckily he was sitting next to me and I could kick him under the table.  It was all very amusing, and very happy also, for these two really loved each other.  Thank God that I, or rather Brother John, was able to bring them together again.

It was during that stay of mine in Essex, by the way, that I first met Lord Ragnall and the beautiful Miss Holmes with whom I was destined to experience some very strange adventures in the after years.

After this interlude I got to work.  Someone told me that there was a firm in the City that made a business of selling orchids by auction, flowers which at this time were beginning to be very fashionable among rich horticulturists.  This, thought I, would be the place for me to show my treasure.  Doubtless Messrs. May and Primrose—­that was their world-famed style—­would be able to put me in touch with opulent orchidists who would not mind venturing a couple of thousands on the chance of receiving a share in a flower that, according to Brother John, should be worth untold gold.  At any rate, I would try.

So on a certain Friday, about half-past twelve, I sought out the place of business of Messrs. May and Primrose, bearing with me the golden Cypripedium, which was now enclosed in a flat tin case.

As it happened I chose an unlucky day and hour, for on arriving at the office and asking for Mr. May, I was informed that he was away in the country valuing.

“Then I would like to see Mr. Primrose,” I said.

“Mr. Primrose is round at the Rooms selling,” replied the clerk, who appeared to be very busy.

“Where are the Rooms?” I asked.

“Out of the door, turn to the left, turn to the left again and under the clock,” said the clerk, and closed the shutter.