“He is a singularly intelligent man,” said Sir Anthony Poole as they parted at the door of Dr. Bowker’s Club, “a singularly intelligent man. Of course one would have expected it from his position, but I did not know until to-day how really remarkably intelligent and cultivated he was.”
“I thoroughly agree with you,” said Dr. Bowker, taking his leave, “he is what I call....” He sought a moment for a word.... “He is what I call a really cultivated and intelligent man.”
That evening Lady Repton received a short but perfectly clear opinion signed by both these first-class authorities, that her husband was in the full possession of his faculties, and that it would be the height of imprudence to set down any extravagance of temper or momentary zeal upon any particular question to mental derangement or to connect it with a slight accidental headache.
Lady Repton in her grievous anxiety (for at the very moment she read the message she heard Sir Charles talking to a policeman out of a window, and telling him that it was ridiculous to try and look dignified in such a uniform), Lady Repton I say, at her wits’ end for advice, was bold enough to ring up the Prime Minister whom she hardly knew, and to tell him all: There was no chance of a certificate; what, oh what should she do?
The Prime Minister was not sympathetic. He did not desire further acquaintance with the lady.
The Premier’s cup was full. His Warden of the Court of Dowry had resigned: the new Warden was appointed. The Warden who had resigned had gone mad; the Warden whom he had appointed had fled. At least—at least he might have been spared the madman! But no, he was not granted even this! the madman was still loose over London like a roaring lion, capable of doing infinite things within the next twenty-four hours. What was a peerage to a madman? What was a Wardenship of the Court of Dowry to a man who was not? The crumb of comfort that would have been afforded him by locking up the wretched lunatic who was the root of half his troubles was snatched from him.
It was enough to make a man cut his throat.
So ended that dreadful Tuesday in Downing Street, and all night long between his fits of tortured and horror-stricken sleep wherein his left lung and his fifty-fifth year were the baleful demons of his dreams, the young and popular Prime Minister would wake in a cold sweat and imagine some new horror proceeding from Repton let loose.
The summer night is short. Wednesday most gloriously dawned, and after two hours of attempted slumber under the newly risen light, the Prime Minister arose, a haggard man.
The lines on either side of the young Prime Minister’s mouth had grown heavier during the suffering of the night.