Henry Royce, millionaire scientist, no longer exists for the world; rather, Henry Royce, philanthropist and amateur gardener. It is strange how Henry took so naturally and intensively to gardening, and he has covered his tracks as an amateur scientist so completely by his new hobby that no one would possibly suspect that the white-haired, old gentleman, wearing overalls, and a healthy sun-bronze, and hoeing and raking in his garden of herbs, once thrilled the world with his scientific exploits.
Scientific matters are taboo in his presence; the slightest reference to Mars, a painful subject; his splendidly equipped observatory stripped of its astronomical fittings. Nevertheless, after all the evidence presented, which proved beyond all doubt that the Martian revelations were a hoax, I have good reasons to believe that deep down in his inner self, he still clings stoutly to his fanciful theory that the radio messages, the rocket and even Mr. Zzyx, did actually come from Mars. I think he still believes that he was right, and the rest of us all wrong.
And in this secret belief he does not play a lone hand, judging from the spirited correspondence he carries on with Olinski, who is now in Russia, employed as a radio engineer by the Soviet Government. After the bursting of the Martian bubble, Olinski resigned from the National Radio Corporation; he brooded, and as a result, lost his health. He was terribly down-at-the-heel when Henry paid his way back to Russia, by way of the Orient; and in pure justice to the memory of Niki, commissioned him to find the valet's relatives, in the Philippines, and turn over to them the full amount of the reward Niki had won by finding the Martian rocket.
Some months later, Henry received a very sad letter from Niki's old mother, in the Philippines, expressing her mingled grief and gratitude. About the same time, he had a cheerful note from Antonio Ranzetti, who has returned to Italy, to live in ease for the remainder of his life, on the generous contribution Henry made to the animal trainer, as a consolation prize for the loss of Peter, his performing chimpanzee, although Henry would never admit that Mr. Zzyx was really Peter.
Out of the Californian void, into which Prince Matani had disappeared, there came at last an account of his marriage to a beautiful screen star of the first magnitude. By this time, I was past wonder and all power to feel astonishment, but the description of the wedding, as given in the newspapers, gave me food for speculation.
He was married quite recently, only a month or so ago, and the ceremony was performed, at the bride's request, on the lot of one of the big producing corporations, where she was appearing daily in an African jungle story, the filming of which was being rushed to completion. A very informal wedding, in a most unique setting. The minister had just pronounced them man and wife when a fierce, giant gorilla, used as local color in the picture, escaped from its cage, and turned the wedding party into a panic.
Before His Highness had time to kiss his bride, according to the papers—pst!—he passed out, and did not emerge from his strange coma until the following morning.
This second attack puzzled the family. It was pointless for me to confess that I knew the reason, never having disclosed what Olinski had told me in secret, of the Prince's family's hereditary affliction. And just a day or so ago, came further news that the Princess Matani had flown to Mexico, to seek a divorce. Fate seems to have done its worst for the Prince.
None of us really cared much what happened to His Highness, all interest in him in its bearing on Pat having ceased entirely. Which brings me to the last remaining piece of news.