At the southern end of Charlotte Street a rough cross had been erected in the middle of the road and to it clung the remains of a skeleton. Most of the bones had fallen to the ground, but enough remained to show that a body—dead or alive—had been crucified there at one time. Over the head of the cross was nailed a placard with the inscription:
ACHTUNG!
EINGANG VERBOTEN.
WIR SIND HIER ZU HAUSE
STÖREN UNS NICHT.
Glendyne was evidently acquainted with the placard, for he did not come forward to read it. He turned to the left and led me into Upper Rathbone Place.
“Mostly Germans in Charlotte Street now,” he said. “A branch of the East End colony, and just about as bad as their friends. I pity anyone who falls into their hands. Ugh!”
He spat on the ground as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.
“Thank goodness, this is only a small colony, for that sort of thing is apt to contaminate everything in its neighbourhood. Down East it’s on a bigger scale. Hark to that!”
Across the house-roofs between us and Charlotte Street there came a long quivering cry as of someone in the extremity of physical and mental agony; then it was drowned in a burst of laughter. Glendyne gritted his teeth.
“To-morrow night, if the moonlight holds, I’ll have an aeroplane down here and give them a taste. They’re all of a kind, in there; so it’s easy enough to be sure we get the right ones. Loathsome swine!”
We cut across into Newman Street. At the door of St. Andrew’s Hall a weird figure was standing—a man dressed as a faun, evidently in a costume which had been looted from some theatrical wardrobe. When he caught sight of us, he ran in our direction, leaping and bounding in an ungainly fashion along the pavement and halting occasionally to blow shrilly upon a reed pipe.
“Pan is not dead!” he cried. “I bring the good tidings! All the world awakes again after its long sleep; and the fauns in the forests are pursuing the hamadryads and following the light feet of the oreads once more upon the hills of Arcady. Io! Io! Evohé! Swift be the hunting!