“Pair of what?” I cried.
“Swans,” said Hamlet. “He's an eccentric sort of a duffer, that Lohengrin. Afraid of horses, I fancy.”
“And so drives swans instead?” said I, incredulously.
“The same,” replied Hamlet. “Do I look as if he drove squab?”
“He must be queer,” said I. “I'd like to meet him. He'd make quite an addition to my collection of freaks.”
“Very well,” observed Hamlet. “He'll be here to-morrow to take luncheon with me, and if you'll come, too, you'll be most welcome. He's collecting freaks, too, and I haven't a doubt would be pleased to know you.”
We parted and I sauntered homeward, cogitating over my strange client, and now and then laughing over the idiosyncrasies of Hamlet's friend the swan-driver. It never occurred to me at the moment however to connect the two, in spite of the link of swan's-down. I regarded it merely as a coincidence. The next day, however, on going to the club and meeting Hamlet's strange guest, I was struck by the further coincidence that his hair was of precisely the same shade of yellow as that in my possession. It was of a hue that I had never seen before except at performances of grand opera, or on the heads of fool detectives in musical burlesques. Here, however, was the real thing growing luxuriantly from the man's head.
“Ho-ho!” thought I to myself. “Here is a fortunate encounter; there may be something in it,” and then I tried to lead him on.
“I understand, Mr. Lohengrin,” I said, “that you have a fine span of swans.”
“Yes,” he said, and I was astonished to note that he, like my client, spoke in musical numbers. “Very. They're much finer than horses, in my opinion. More peaceful, quite as rapid, and amphibious. If I go out for a drive and come to a lake they trot quite as well across its surface as on the highways.”