Dr. Cyrus Pym rose in protest.  The documents he had put in evidence had been confined to cold affirmation of fact.  The defence, in a general way, had an indubitable right to put their case in their own way, but all this landscape gardening seemed to him (Dr. Cyrus Pym) to be not up to the business.  “Will the leader of the defence tell me,” he asked, “how it can possibly affect this case, that a cloud was cor’l-coloured, or that a bird could have winged itself anywhere?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Michael, lifting himself lazily; “you see, you don’t know yet what our defence is.  Till you know that, don’t you see, anything may be relevant.  Why, suppose,” he said suddenly, as if an idea had struck him, “suppose we wanted to prove the old Warden colour-blind.  Suppose he was shot by a black man with white hair, when he thought he was being shot by a white man with yellow hair!  To ascertain if that cloud was really and truly coral-coloured might be of the most massive importance.”

He paused with a seriousness which was hardly generally shared, and continued with the same fluency:  “Or suppose we wanted to maintain that the Warden committed suicide—­that he just got Smith to hold the pistol as Brutus’s slave held the sword.  Why, it would make all the difference whether the Warden could see himself plain in still water.  Still water has made hundreds of suicides:  one sees oneself so very—­well, so very plain.”

“Do you, perhaps,” inquired Pym with austere irony, “maintain that your client was a bird of some sort—­say, a flamingo?”

“In the matter of his being a flamingo,” said Moon with sudden severity, “my client reserves his defence.”

No one quite knowing what to make of this, Mr. Moon resumed his seat and Inglewood resumed the reading of his document:—­

“There is something pleasing to a mystic in such a land of mirrors.  For a mystic is one who holds that two worlds are better than one.  In the highest sense, indeed, all thought is reflection.

“This is the real truth, in the saying that second thoughts are best.  Animals have no second thoughts; man alone is able to see his own thought double, as a drunkard sees a lamp-post; man alone is able to see his own thought upside down as one sees a house in a puddle.  This duplication of mentality, as in a mirror, is (we repeat) the inmost thing of human philosophy.  There is a mystical, even a monstrous truth, in the statement that two heads are better than one.  But they ought both to grow on the same body.”

“I know it’s a little transcendental at first,” interposed Inglewood, beaming round with a broad apology, “but you see this document was written in collaboration by a don and a—­”

“Drunkard, eh?” suggested Moses Gould, beginning to enjoy himself.

“I rather think,” proceeded Inglewood with an unruffled and critical air, “that this part was written by the don.  I merely warn the Court that the statement, though indubitably accurate, bears here and there the trace of coming from two authors.”