With his genius for the unexpected the Seraph disappeared from our ken for an entire week after our return to London. Gladys and I were always running over to the Rodens' or receiving visits from Sylvia and Philip; it appeared that he had forsaken Cadogan Square as completely as Pont Street, and the unenthusiastic tone in which the information was volunteered did not tempt me to prosecute further inquiries. On about the fifth day I did pluck up courage to ask Lady Roden if he had yet come to the surface, but so far from receiving an intelligible answer I found myself undergoing rigorous examination into his antecedents. "Who is this Mr. Aintree?" I remember her asking in her lifeless, faded voice. "Has he any relations? There used to be a Sir John Aintree who was joint-master of the Meynell."
After a series of unsuccessful inquiries over the telephone, I set out to make personal investigation. Sylvia had carried Gladys off to Ranelagh, and as Robin offered his services as escort to the girls, I felt no scruples in resigning my ward to her charge. For Sylvia, I am glad to say, my responsibility had ceased, and I was at liberty to proceed to Adelphi Terrace, and ascertain why at any hour of the day or night I was met with the news that Mr. Aintree was in town, but away from his flat, and had left no word when he would be back. I called in at the club before trying his flat. The Seraph was not there, but I found the polyglot Culling explaining for Gartside's benefit certain of the more obvious drolleries of the current "Vie Parisienne."
"Where did ye pick up yer French accent, Bob?" I heard him inquire with feigned admiration. "In Soho? I wonder who dropped it there?" Then he caught sight of me, and his face assumed an awful solemnity. "'Corruptio optimi pessima!' I wonder ye've the courage to show yerself among respectable men like me and Gartside."
I inquired if either of them knew of the Seraph's whereabouts, but the question appeared to add fuel to Culling's indignation.
"Where is the Seraph?" he exclaimed. "Well ye may ask! His wings are clipped, there's a dint in his halo, and his harp has its strings broken. The Heavenly Choir——" He paused abruptly, seized a sheet of foolscap and resumed his normal tone. "This'll be rather good—the Heavenly Choir and our Seraph flung out like a common drunk same as Gartside here.
'To bottomless perdition, there to dwell—
Why can't the club afford a decent pen?
You're our committeeman, Bob, you're to blame.
I always use blank verse for my complaints.—
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire.'"
John Milton: "Paradise Lost, Liber One."
I watched the Heavenly Choir being sketched. In uniform and figure the Archangel Gabriel presented a striking resemblance to any Keeper of the Peace at any Music Hall. An official braided coat bulged at the shoulders with the pressure of two cramped wings, his peaked cap had been knocked over one eye, and his halo—in Culling's words—was "all anyhow." As the artist insisted on a companion picture to show the Seraph's reception in Bottomless Perdition, I turned to Gartside for enlightenment.
"It's been going on long enough to be getting serious," I was told. "A solid week now."
"What's been going on?" I exclaimed in despair. "Where are we? Above all, where's the Seraph?"