Besides, he hardly knew him sufficiently to intrude at this hour of the day.

One thing was certain.  He would go to the Cave of Mercury that very evening.  Keith was right.  He must try to “find himself.”  He wanted to be alone, to think things out.  Or perhaps—­no.  He did not want to be alone with his thoughts.  They were too oppressive just then.  He required some kind of company.

Besides, Keith had said “full moon.”  The moon was not yet quite full.

No!

He would see what the Duchess was doing, and perhaps stay to luncheon.  Eames could wait.  So could the bishop.  So could the cave.  He was fond of the Duchess.

Besides, it was such a quaint place—­that austere old convent, built by the Good Duke Alfred.

CHAPTER IX

“That is the worst of dining with a man.  You have to be civil next morning.  But surely, Eames, we two need not stand on ceremony?  I am particularly anxious for you to come to-night.  Can’t you really manage it?  I want you to meet Malipizzo and say a few nice words to him.  You are too aloof with that man.  There is nothing like keeping on the right side of the law.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The right side of the judge,” said Keith.  “It is so easy to be polite to people, and so advisable in some cases.  How would you like to spend a week or two in gaol?  He will have you there one of these days, unless you have placed him under some kind of obligation.  He represents justice here.  I know you don’t like him.  But what would it cost you—­just a friendly handshake?”

“He cannot touch me.  I have nothing on my conscience.”

“Conscience, my dear fellow, is a good servant but a bad master.  Your sentiments are English.  They will never do in a country where the personal element still counts for something.”

“The personal element signifying favouritism and venality?” asked Eames.  “A pretty state of affairs!”

“The philosopher can only live under a venal government.”

“I disagree with you altogether.”

“You always disagree with me,” answered Keith.  “And you always find yourself in the wrong.  You remember how I warned you about that little affair of yours?  You remember what an ass you made of yourself?”

“What little affair?” enquired Eames, with a tinge of resignation in his voice.

The other did not reply.  Mr. Keith could be tactful, on occasions.  He pretended to be absorbed in cutting a cigar.

“What little affair?” insisted the bibliographer, fearful of what was coming next.

It came.

“Oh, that balloon business. . . .”