“Yes,” said the man with the flaxen beard.
“Who is that?” He indicated the archway behind him.
The man in purple stroked his little beard, hesitated, and answered in an undertone, “He is Howard, your chief guardian. You see, Sire,—it’s a little difficult to explain. The Council appoints a guardian and assistants. This hall has under certain restrictions been public. In order that people might satisfy themselves. We have barred the doorways for the first time. But I think—if you don’t mind, I will leave him to explain.”
“Odd” said Graham. “Guardian? Council?” Then turning his back on the new comer, he asked in an undertone, “Why is this man glaring at me? Is he a mesmerist?”
“Mesmerist! He is a capillotomist.”
“Capillotomist!”
“Yes—one of the chief. His yearly fee is sixdoz lions.”
It sounded sheer nonsense. Graham snatched at the last phrase with an unsteady mind. “Sixdoz lions?” he said.
“Didn’t you have lions? I suppose not. You had the old pounds? They are our monetary units.”
“But what was that you said—sixdoz?”