“There is only one man who has any influence in England now,” said Vane, and his high voice fell to a sudden and convincing quietude.

“Whom do you mean?” asked Turnbull.

“I mean that cursed fellow with the long split chin,” said the other.

“Is it really true,” asked Turnbull, “that he has been allowed to buy up and control such a lot?  What put the country into such a state?”

Mr. Cumberland Vane laughed outright.  “What put the country into such a state?” he asked.  “Why, you did.  When you were fool enough to agree to fight MacIan, after all, everybody was ready to believe that the Bank of England might paint itself pink with white spots.”

“I don’t understand,” answered Turnbull.  “Why should you be surprised at my fighting?  I hope I have always fought.”

“Well,” said Cumberland Vane, airily, “you didn’t believe in religion, you see—­so we thought you were safe at any rate.  You went further in your language than most of us wanted to go; no good in just hurting one’s mother’s feelings, I think.  But of course we all knew you were right, and, really, we relied on you.”

“Did you?” said the editor of The Atheist with a bursting heart.  “I am sorry you did not tell me so at the time.”

He walked away very rapidly and flung himself on a garden seat, and for some six minutes his own wrongs hid from him the huge and hilarious fact that Cumberland Vane had been locked up as a lunatic.

The garden of the madhouse was so perfectly planned, and answered so exquisitely to every hour of daylight, that one could almost fancy that the sunlight was caught there tangled in its tinted trees, as the wise men of Gotham tried to chain the spring to a bush.  Or it seemed as if this ironic paradise still kept its unique dawn or its special sunset while the rest of the earthly globe rolled through its ordinary hours.  There was one evening, or late afternoon, in particular, which Evan MacIan will remember in the last moments of death.  It was what artists call a daffodil sky, but it is coarsened even by reference to a daffodil.  It was of that innocent lonely yellow which has never heard of orange, though it might turn quite unconsciously into green.  Against it the tops, one might say the turrets, of the clipt and ordered trees were outlined in that shade of veiled violet which tints the tops of lavender.  A white early moon was hardly traceable upon that delicate yellow.  MacIan, I say, will remember this tender and transparent evening, partly because of its virgin gold and silver, and partly because he passed beneath it through the most horrible instant of his life.