“If you could divest your speech of symbolism,” said he pathetically, “and give me facts in plain English.”
“No symbolism I assure you,” protested John. “It was a goat,—a black and white goat. It curved, it gavotted, it gambolled, thereby causing much distress to a fair lady and her two attendant knights, who were, believe me, hardly of an age to deal convincingly with either goats or dragons. Then, behold, enter St. George.” He struck himself upon the chest.
“Oh!” Corin began to find a thread of reasonableness among the nonsense. “Who was the lady, I wonder?”
“She told me,” said John, “that her name was Miss Rosamund Delancey.” He experienced a strange sensation of pleasure in pronouncing the words.
“Oh!” said Corin a second time. “From the Castle.”
“From the Castle,” echoed John.
Corin reflected, mused. Finally, seeing that John had come to an end of the repast, he pushed back his chair, rose from the table, and lighted a cigarette.
“I have heard a rumour,” said he, the cigarette lighted, “that they are shortly leaving the Castle on account of some claimant who has turned up. I can’t remember the whole story. I know it struck me as sufficiently melodramatic at the moment,—murders, missing documents, and little Adelphi touches of that kind were mixed up in it. But I daresay it’s nothing but a rumour.”
“Let us trust so,” said John devoutly.