“But the year, the year?”
“Why the year is Nineteen hundred thirteen.”
“Thank God! I thought it was nineteen fourteen.” Then the whole truth flashed on me. Prince of Dreamers! In a night I had dreamed the events of a whole year of life. Yesterday was the day of my accident, and this morning—why, I had to pass my examination for a chauffeur’s licence; this morning at nine o’clock, and it was now eleven. Too late.
Yet I did not care then for a thousand Inspectors. I was not married to Boadicea. I still had Little Thing. I vow I was the happiest man in the world.
“Pack everything up,” I said. “We leave for America to-morrow.”
Once more I sat in the favourite chair of my favourite club, surveying the incredible bank-book. Figures! Figures! More formidably than ever they loomed up. Useless indeed to try and cope with this flood of fortune.
And now that I had two reputations to keep up, the flood was more insistent than ever. Not only were there the best-sellers of Norman Dane to bargain with, but also the best-sellers of Silenus Starset. And for my own modest needs, with Anastasia’s careful management, my little patrimony more than sufficed. What then was I going to do with these senseless figures that insisted so in piling up, and yet meant nothing to me? Suddenly the solution flashed on me, and as if it were an illuminated banner I saw the words:
James Horace Madden, Philanthropist.
That was it. This wonderful gift of mine that made the acquisition of money so easy, what should I do with it but exercise it for the good of humanity?