“What a funny name,” remarked the Bishop.

“Yes, and he is a funny animal.  They are great friends, those two.”

“A horrible man, that judge,” said the Duchess.  “Only think, Mr. Heard, an atheist.”

“A freemason,” corrected Mr. Keith.

“It’s the same thing.  And ugly!  Nobody has a right to be quite so ugly.  I declare he’s worse than the cinematographic villain—­you remember, Denis?”

“It is a miracle he has lived so long, with that face,” added Don Francesco.  “I think God created him in order that mankind should have some idea of the meaning of the word ‘grotesque.’”

The proud title “Commissioner” caused the bishop to pay particular attention to the other of the two individuals in question.  He beheld a stumpy and pompous-looking personage, flushed in the face, with a moth-eaten grey beard and shifty grey eyes, clothed in a flannel shirt, tweed knickerbockers, brown stockings, white spats and shoes.  Such was the Commissioner’s invariable get-up, save that in winter he wore a cap instead of a panama.  He was smoking a briar pipe and looking blatantly British, as if he had just spent an unwashed night in a third-class carriage between King’s Cross and Aberdeen.  The magistrate, on the other hand—­the red-haired man—­was jauntily dressed, with a straw hat on one side of his repulsive head, and plenty of starch about him.

“I never knew we had a Commissioner here,” said Mr. Heard.

Keith replied: 

“We haven’t.  He is Financial Commissioner for Nicaragua.  An incomparable ass is Mr. Freddy Parker.”

“Oh, he has a sensible idea now and then, when he forgets to be a fool,” observed Don Francesco.  “He is President of the Club, Mr. Heard.  They will elect you honorary member.  Take my advice.  Avoid the whisky.”

Denis remarked, after a critical glance in the same direction: 

“I notice that the Commissioner looks redder in the face than when I last saw him.”

“That,” said Keith, “is one of Mr. Parker’s characteristics.”

CHAPTER III

Concerning the life and martyrdom of Saint Dodekamus, patron of Nepenthe, we possess hardly any information of a trustworthy nature.  It is with his career as with that of other saints:  they become overlaid—­encrusted, as it were—­with extraneous legendary material in the course of ages, even as a downward-rolling avalanche gathers snow.  The nucleus is hard to find.  What is incontestably true may be summed up almost in one paragraph.

He was born in A.D. 450, or thereabouts, in the city of Kallisto, in Crete.  He was an only child, a beautiful but unruly boy, the despair of his widowed mother.  At the age of thirteen he encountered, one evening, an elderly man of thoughtful mien, who addressed him in familiar language.  On several later occasions he discoursed with the same personage, in a grove of laurels and pines known as Alephane;