Gilbert K. Chesterton: The Club of Queer Trades (1905)
The Singular Speculation of the House-Agent
Lieutenant Drummond Keith was a man about whom conversation
always burst like a thunderstorm the moment he left the room.
This arose from many separate touches about him. He was a
light, loose person, who wore light, loose clothes, generally
white, as if he were in the tropics; he was lean and graceful,
like a panther, and he had restless black eyes.
He was very impecunious. He had one of the habits of the
poor, in a degree so exaggerated as immeasurably to eclipse the
most miserable of the unemployed; I mean the habit of continual
change of lodgings. There are inland tracts of London where, in
the very heart of artificial civilization, humanity has almost
become nomadic once more. But in that restless interior there
was no ragged tramp so restless as the elegant officer in the
loose white clothes. He had shot a great many things in his
time, to judge from his conversation, from partridges to
elephants, but his slangier acquaintances were of opinion that
`the moon' had been not unfrequently amid the victims of his
victorious rifle. The phrase is a fine one, and suggests a
mystic, elvish, nocturnal hunting.
He carried from house to house and from parish to parish a
kit which consisted practically of five articles. Two
odd-looking, large-bladed spears, tied together, the weapons, I
suppose, of some savage tribe, a green umbrella, a huge and
tattered copy of the Pickwick Papers, a big game rifle, and a
large sealed jar of some unholy Oriental wine. These always
went into every new lodging, even for one night; and they went
in quite undisguised, tied up in wisps of string or straw, to
the delight of the poetic gutter boys in the little grey
I had forgotten to mention that he always carried also his
old regimental sword. But this raised another odd question
about him. Slim and active as he was, he was no longer very
young. His hair, indeed, was quite grey, though his rather wild
almost Italian moustache retained its blackness, and his face
was careworn under its almost Italian gaiety. To find a
middle-aged man who has left the Army at the primitive rank of
lieutenant is unusual and not necessarily encouraging. With the
more cautious and solid this fact, like his endless flitting,
did the mysterious gentleman no good.
Lastly, he was a man who told the kind of adventures which
win a man admiration, but not respect. They came out of queer
places, where a good man would scarcely find himself, out of
opium dens and gambling hells; they had the heat of the
thieves' kitchens or smelled of a strange smoke from cannibal
incantations. These are the kind of stories which discredit a
person almost equally whether they are believed or no. If
Keith's tales were false he was a liar; if they were true he
had had, at any rate, every opportunity of being a scamp.
He had just left the room in which I sat with Basil Grant
and his brother Rupert, the voluble amateur detective. And as I
say was invariably the case, we were all talking about him.
Rupert Grant was a clever young fellow, but he had that
tendency which youth and cleverness, when sharply combined, so
often produce, a somewhat extravagant scepticism. He saw doubt
and guilt everywhere, and it was meat and drink to him. I had
often got irritated with this boyish incredulity of his, but on
this particular occasion I am bound to say that I thought him
so obviously right that I was astounded at Basil's opposing
him, however banteringly.
I could swallow a good deal, being naturally of a simple
turn, but I could not swallow Lieutenant Keith's autobiography.
`You don't seriously mean, Basil,' I said, `that you think
that that fellow really did go as a stowaway with Nansen and
pretend to be the Mad Mullah and---'
`He has one fault,' said Basil thoughtfully, `or virtue, as
you may happen to regard it. He tells the truth in too exact
and bald a style; he is too veracious.'
`Oh! if you are going to be paradoxical,' said Rupert
contemptuously, `be a bit funnier than that. Say, for instance,
that he has lived all his life in one ancestral manor.'
`No, he's extremely fond of change of scene,' replied Basil
dispassionately, `and of living in odd places. That doesn't
prevent his chief trait being verbal exactitude. What you
people don't understand is that telling a thing crudely and
coarsely as it happened makes it sound frightfully strange. The
sort of things Keith recounts are not the sort of things that a
man would make up to cover himself with honour; they are too
absurd. But they are the sort of things that a man would do if
he were sufficiently filled with the soul of skylarking.'
`So far from paradox,' said his brother, with something
rather like a sneer, `you seem to be going in for journalese
proverbs. Do you believe that truth is stranger than fiction?'
`Truth must of necessity be stranger than fiction,' said
Basil placidly. `For fiction is the creation of the human mind,
and therefore is congenial to it.'
`Well, your lieutenant's truth is stranger, if it is truth,
than anything I ever heard of,' said Rupert, relapsing into
flippancy. `Do you, on your soul, believe in all that about the
shark and the camera?'
`I believe Keith's words,' answered the other. `He is an
`I should like to question a regiment of his landladies,'
said Rupert cynically.
`I must say, I think you can hardly regard him as
unimpeachable merely in himself,' I said mildly; `his mode of
Before I could complete the sentence the door was flung open
and Drummond Keith appeared again on the threshold, his white
Panama on his head.
`I say, Grant,' he said, knocking off his cigarette ash
against the door, `I've got no money in the world till next
April. Could you lend me a hundred pounds? There's a good
Rupert and I looked at each other in an ironical silence.
Basil, who was sitting by his desk, swung the chair round idly
on its screw and picked up a quill-pen.
`Shall I cross it?' he asked, opening a cheque-book.
`Really,' began Rupert, with a rather nervous loudness,
`since Lieutenant Keith has seen fit to make this suggestion to
Basil before his family, I---'
`Here you are, Ugly,' said Basil, fluttering a cheque in the
direction of the quite nonchalant officer. `Are you in a
`Yes,' replied Keith, in a rather abrupt way. `As a matter
of fact I want it now. I want to see my---er---business man.'
Rupert was eyeing him sarcastically, and I could see that it
was on the tip of his tongue to say, inquiringly, `Receiver of
stolen goods, perhaps.' What he did say was:
`A business man? That's rather a general description,
Keith looked at him sharply, and then said, with something
rather like ill-temper:
`He's a thingum-my-bob, a house-agent, say. I'm going to see
`Oh, you're going to see a house-agent, are you?' said
Rupert Grant grimly. `Do you know, Mr Keith, I think I should
very much like to go with you?'
Basil shook with his soundless laughter. Lieutenant Keith
started a little; his brow blackened sharply.
`I beg your pardon,' he said. `What did you say?'
Rupert's face had been growing from stage to stage of
ferocious irony, and he answered:
`I was saying that I wondered whether you would mind our
strolling along with you to this house-agent's.'
The visitor swung his stick with a sudden whirling violence.
`Oh, in God's name, come to my house-agent's! Come to my
bedroom. Look under my bed. Examine my dust-bin. Come along!'
And with a furious energy which took away our breath he banged
his way out of the room.
Rupert Grant, his restless blue eyes dancing with his
detective excitement, soon shouldered alongside him, talking to
him with that transparent camaraderie which he imagined to be
appropriate from the disguised policeman to the disguised
criminal. His interpretation was certainly corroborated by one
particular detail, the unmistakable unrest, annoyance, and
nervousness of the man with whom he walked. Basil and I tramped
behind, and it was not necessary for us to tell each other that
we had both noticed this.
Lieutenant Drummond Keith led us through very extraordinary
and unpromising neighbourhoods in the search for his remarkable
house-agent. Neither of the brothers Grant failed to notice
this fact. As the streets grew closer and more crooked and the
roofs lower and the gutters grosser with mud, a darker
curiosity deepened on the brows of Basil, and the figure of
Rupert seen from behind seemed to fill the street with a
gigantic swagger of success. At length, at the end of the
fourth or fifth lean grey street in that sterile district, we
came suddenly to a halt, the mysterious lieutenant looking once
more about him with a sort of sulky desperation. Above a row of
shutters and a door, all indescribably dingy in appearance and
in size scarce sufficient even for a penny toyshop, ran the
inscription: `P. Montmorency, House-Agent.'
`This is the office of which I spoke,' said Keith, in a
cutting voice. `Will you wait here a moment, or does your
astonishing tenderness about my welfare lead you to wish to
overhear everything I have to say to my business adviser?'
Rupert's face was white and shaking with excitement; nothing
on earth would have induced him now to have abandoned his prey.
`If you will excuse me,' he said, clenching his hands behind
his back, `I think I should feel myself justified in---'
`Oh! Come along in,' exploded the lieutenant. He made the
same gesture of savage surrender. And he slammed into the
office, the rest of us at his heels.
P. Montmorency, House-Agent, was a solitary old gentleman
sitting behind a bare brown counter. He had an egglike head,
froglike jaws, and a grey hairy fringe of aureole round the
lower part of his face; the whole combined with a reddish,
aquiline nose. He wore a shabby black frock-coat, a sort of
semi-clerical tie worn at a very unclerical angle, and looked,
generally speaking, about as unlike a house-agent as anything
could look, short of something like a sandwich man or a Scotch
We stood inside the room for fully forty seconds, and the
odd old gentleman did not look at us. Neither, to tell the
truth, odd as he was, did we look at him. Our eyes were fixed,
where his were fixed, upon something that was crawling about on
the counter in front of him. It was a ferret.
The silence was broken by Rupert Grant. He spoke in that
sweet and steely voice which he reserved for great occasions
and practised for hours together in his bedroom. He said:
`Mr Montmorency, I think?'
The old gentleman started, lifted his eyes with a bland
bewilderment, picked up the ferret by the neck, stuffed it
alive into his trousers pocket, smiled apologetically, and
`You are a house-agent, are you not?' asked Rupert.
To the delight of that criminal investigator, Mr
Montmorency's eyes wandered unquietly towards Lieutenant Keith,
the only man present that he knew.
`A house-agent,' cried Rupert again, bringing out the word
as if it were `burglar'.
`Yes ... oh, yes,' said the man, with a quavering and almost
coquettish smile. `I am a house-agent ... oh, yes.'
`Well, I think,' said Rupert, with a sardonic sleekness,
`that Lieutenant Keith wants to speak to you. We have come in
by his request.'
Lieutenant Keith was lowering gloomily, and now he spoke.
`I have come, Mr Montmorency, about that house of mine.'
`Yes, sir,' said Montmorency, spreading his fingers on the
flat counter. `It's all ready, sir. I've attended to all your
suggestions er--- about the br---'
`Right,' cried Keith, cutting the word short with the
startling neatness of a gunshot. `We needn't bother about all
that. If you've done what I told you, all right.'
And he turned sharply towards the door.
Mr Montmorency, House-Agent, presented a picture of pathos.
After stammering a moment he said: `Excuse me ... Mr Keith ...
there was another matter ... about which I wasn't quite sure.
I tried to get all the heating apparatus possible under the
circumstances ... but in winter ... at that elevation ...'
`Can't expect much, eh?' said the lieutenant, cutting in
with the same sudden skill. `No, of course not. That's all
right, Montmorency. There can't be any more difficulties,' and
he put his hand on the handle of the door.
`I think,' said Rupert Grant, with a satanic suavity, `that
Mr Montmorency has something further to say to you,
`Only,' said the house-agent, in desperation, `what about
`I beg your pardon,' said Rupert, in a general blank.
`What about the birds?' said the house-agent doggedly.
Basil, who had remained throughout the procedings in a state
of Napoleonic calm, which might be more accurately described as
a state of Napoleonic stupidity, suddenly lifted his leonine
`Before you go, Lieutenant Keith,' he said. `Come now.
Really, what about the birds?'
`I'll take care of them,' said Lieutenant Keith, still with
his long back turned to us; `they shan't suffer.'
`Thank you, sir, thank you,' cried the incomprehensible
house-agent, with an air of ecstasy. `You'll excuse my concern,
sir. You know I'm wild on wild animals. I'm as wild as any of
them on that. Thank you, sir. But there's another thing...'
The lieutenant, with his back turned to us, exploded with an
indescribable laugh and swung round to face us. It was a laugh,
the purport of which was direct and essential, and yet which
one cannot exactly express. As near as it said anything,
verbally speaking, it said: `Well, if you must spoil it, you
must. But you don't know what you're spoiling.'
`There is another thing,' continued Mr Montmorency weakly.
`Of course, if you don't want to be visited you'll paint the
house green, but---'
`Green!' shouted Keith. `Green! Let it be green or nothing.
I won't have a house of another colour. Green!' and before we
could realize anything the door had banged between us and the
Rupert Grant seemed to take a little time to collect
himself; but he spoke before the echoes of the door died away.
`Your client, Lieutenant Keith, appears somewhat excited,'
he said. `What is the matter with him? Is he unwell?'
`Oh, I should think not,' said Mr Montmorency, in some
confusion. `The negotiations have been somewhat difficult---the
house is rather---'
`Green,' said Rupert calmly. `That appears to be a very
important point. It must be rather green. May I ask you, Mr
Montmorency, before I rejoin my companion outside, whether, in
your business, it is usual to ask for houses by their colour?
Do clients write to a house-agent asking for a pink house or a
blue house? Or, to take another instance, for a green house?'
`Only,' said Montmorency, trembling, `only to be
Rupert had his ruthless smile. `Can you tell me any place on
earth in which a green house would be inconspicuous?'
The house-agent was fidgeting nervously in his pocket.
Slowly drawing out a couple of lizards and leaving them to run
on the counter, he said:
`No; I can't.'
`You can't suggest an explanation?'
`No,' said Mr Montmorency, rising slowly and yet in such a
way as to suggest a sudden situation, `I can't. And may I, as a
busy man, be excused if I ask you, gentlemen, if you have any
demand to make of me in connection with my business. What kind
of house would you desire me to get for you, sir?'
He opened his blank blue eyes on Rupert, who seemed for the
second staggered. Then he recovered himself with perfect common
sense and answered:
`I am sorry, Mr Montmorency. The fascination of your remarks
has unduly delayed us from joining our friend outside. Pray
excuse my apparent impertinence.'
`Not at all, sir,' said the house-agent, taking a South
American spider idly from his waistcoat pocket and letting it
climb up the slope of his desk. `Not at all, sir. I hope you
will favour me again.'
Rupert Grant dashed out of the office in a gust of anger,
anxious to face Lieutenant Keith. He was gone. The dull,
starlit street was deserted.
`What do you say now?' cried Rupert to his brother. His
brother said nothing now.
We all three strode down the street in silence, Rupert
feverish, myself dazed, Basil, to all appearance, merely dull.
We walked through grey street after grey street, turning
corners, traversing squares, scarcely meeting anyone, except
occasional drunken knots of two or three.
In one small street, however, the knots of two or three
began abruptly to thicken into knots of five or six and then
into great groups and then into a crowd. The crowd was stirring
very slightly. But anyone with a knowledge of the eternal
populace knows that if the outside rim of a crowd stirs ever so
slightly it means that there is madness in the heart and core
of the mob. It soon became evident that something really
important had happened in the centre of this excitement. We
wormed our way to the front, with the cunning which is known
only to cockneys, and once there we soon learned the nature of
the difficulty. There had been a brawl concerned with some six
men, and one of them lay almost dead on the stones of the
street. Of the other four, all interesting matters were, as far
as we were concerned, swallowed up in one stupendous fact. One
of the four survivors of the brutal and perhaps fatal scuffle
was the immaculate Lieutenant Keith, his clothes torn to
ribbons, his eyes blazing, blood on his knuckles. One other
thing, however, pointed at him in a worse manner. A short
sword, or very long knife, had been drawn out of his elegant
walking-stick, and lay in front of him upon the stones. It did
not, however, appear to be bloody.
The police had already pushed into the centre with their
ponderous omnipotence, and even as they did so, Rupert Grant
sprang forward with his incontrollable and intolerable secret.
`That is the man, constable,' he shouted, pointing at the
battered lieutenant. `He is a suspicious character. He did the
`There's been no murder done, sir,' said the policeman, with
his automatic civility. `The poor man's only hurt. I shall only
be able to take the names and addresses of the men in the
scuffle and have a good eye kept on them.'
`Have a good eye kept on that one,' said Rupert, pale to the
lips, and pointing to the ragged Keith.
`All right, sir,' said the policeman unemotionally, and went
the round of the people present, collecting the addresses. When
he had completed his task the dusk had fallen and most of the
people not immediately connected with the examination had gone
away. He still found, however, one eager-faced stranger
lingering on the outskirts of the affair. It was Rupert Grant.
`Constable,' he said, `I have a very particular reason for
asking you a question. Would you mind telling me whether that
military fellow who dropped his sword-stick in the row gave you
an address or not?'
`Yes, sir,' said the policeman, after a reflective pause;
`yes, he gave me his address.'
`My name is Rupert Grant,' said that individual, with some
pomp. `I have assisted the police on more than one occasion. I
wonder whether you would tell me, as a special favour, what
The constable looked at him.
`Yes,' he said slowly, `if you like. His address is: The
Elms, Buxton Common, near Purley, Surrey.'
`Thank you,' said Rupert, and ran home through the gathering
night as fast as his legs could carry him, repeating the
address to himself.
Rupert Grant generally came down late in a rather lordly way
to breakfast; he contrived, I don't know how, to achieve always
the attitude of the indulged younger brother. Next morning,
however, when Basil and I came down we found him ready and
`Well,' he said sharply to his brother almost before we sat
down to the meal. `What do you think of your Drummond Keith
`What do I think of him?' inquired Basil slowly. `I don't
think anything of him.'
`I'm glad to hear it,' said Rupert, buttering his toast with
an energy that was somewhat exultant. `I thought you'd come
round to my view, but I own I was startled at your not seeing
it from the beginning. The man is a translucent liar and
`I think,' said Basil, in the same heavy monotone as before,
`that I did not make myself clear. When I said that I thought
nothing of him I meant grammatically what I said. I meant that
I did not think about him; that he did not occupy my mind. You,
however, seem to me to think a lot of him, since you think him
a knave. I should say he was glaringly good myself.'
`I sometimes think you talk paradox for its own sake,' said
Rupert, breaking an egg with unnecessary sharpness. `What the
deuce is the sense of it? Here's a man whose original position
was, by our common agreement, dubious. He's a wanderer, a
teller of tall tales, a man who doesn't conceal his
acquaintance with all the blackest and bloodiest scenes on
earth. We take the trouble to follow him to one of his
appointments, and if ever two human beings were plotting
together and lying to every one else, he and that impossible
house-agent were doing it. We followed him home, and the very
same night he is in the thick of a fatal, or nearly fatal,
brawl, in which he is the only man armed. Really, if this is
being glaringly good, I must confess that the glare does not
Basil was quite unmoved. `I admit his moral goodness is of a
certain kind, a quaint, perhaps a casual kind. He is very fond
of change and experiment. But all the points you so ingeniously
make against him are mere coincidence or special pleading. It's
true he didn't want to talk about his house business in front
of us. No man would. It's true that he carries a sword-stick.
Any man might. It's true he drew it in the shock of a street
fight. Any man would. But there's nothing really dubious in all
this. There's nothing to confirm---'
As he spoke a knock came at the door.
`If you please, sir,' said the landlady, with an alarmed
air, `there's a policeman wants to see you.'
`Show him in,' said Basil, amid the blank silence.
The heavy, handsome constable who appeared at the door spoke
almost as soon as he appeared there.
`I think one of you gentlemen,' he said, curtly but
respectfully, `was present at the affair in Copper Street last
night, and drew my attention very strongly to a particular
Rupert half rose from his chair, with eyes like diamonds,
but the constable went on calmly, referring to a paper.
`A young man with grey hair. Had light grey clothes, very
good, but torn in the struggle. Gave his name as Drummond
`This is amusing,' said Basil, laughing. `I was in the very
act of clearing that poor officer's character of rather
fanciful aspersions. What about him?'
`Well, sir,' said the constable, `I took all the men's
addresses and had them all watched. It wasn't serious enough to
do more than that. All the other addresses are all right. But
this man Keith gave a false address. The place doesn't exist.'
The breakfast table was nearly flung over as Rupert sprang
up, slapping both his thighs.
`Well, by all that's good,' he cried. `This is a sign from
`It's certainly very extraordinary,' said Basil quietly,
with knitted brows. `It's odd the fellow should have given a
false address, considering he was perfectly innocent in the---'
`Oh, you jolly old early Christian duffer,' cried Rupert, in
a sort of rapture, `I don't wonder you couldn't be a judge. You
think every one as good as yourself. Isn't the thing plain
enough now? A doubtful acquaintance; rowdy stories, a most
suspicious conversation, mean streets, a concealed knife, a man
nearly killed, and, finally, a false address. That's what we
call glaring goodness.'
`It's certainly very extraordinary,' repeated Basil. And he
strolled moodily about the room. Then he said: `You are quite
sure, constable, that there's no mistake? You got the address
right, and the police have really gone to it and found it was a
`It was very simple, sir,' said the policeman, chuckling.
`The place he named was a well-known common quite near London,
and our people were down there this morning before any of you
were awake. And there's no such house. In fact, there are
hardly any houses at all. Though it is so near London, it's a
blank moor with hardly five trees on it, to say nothing of
Christians. Oh, no, sir, the address was a fraud right enough.
He was a clever rascal, and chose one of those scraps of lost
England that people know nothing about. Nobody could say
off-hand that there was not a particular house dropped
somewhere about the heath. But as a fact, there isn't.'
Basil's face during this sensible speech had been growing
darker and darker with a sort of desperate sagacity. He was
cornered almost for the first time since I had known him; and
to tell the truth I rather wondered at the almost childish
obstinacy which kept him so close to his original prejudice in
favour of the wildly questionable lieutenant. At length he
`You really searched the common? And the address was really
not known in the district--- by the way, what was the address?'
The constable selected one of his slips of paper and
consulted it, but before he could speak Rupert Grant, who was
leaning in the window in a perfect posture of the quiet and
triumphant detective, struck in with the sharp and suave voice
he loved so much to use.
`Why, I can tell you that, Basil,' he said graciously as he
idly plucked leaves from a plant in the window. `I took the
precaution to get this man's address from the constable last
`And what was it?' asked his brother gruffly.
`The constable will correct me if I am wrong,' said Rupert,
looking sweetly at the ceiling. `It was: The Elms, Buxton
Common, near Purley, Surrey.'
`Right, sir,' said the policeman, laughing and folding up
There was a silence, and the blue eyes of Basil looked
blindly for a few seconds into the void. Then his head fell
back in his chair so suddenly that I started up, thinking him
ill. But before I could move further his lips had flown apart
(I can use no other phrase) and a peal of gigantic laughter
struck and shook the ceiling---laughter that shook the
laughter, laughter redoubled, laughter incurable, laughter that
could not stop.
Two whole minutes afterwards it was still unended; Basil was
ill with laughter; but still he laughed. The rest of us were by
this time ill almost with terror.
`Excuse me,' said the insane creature, getting at last to
his feet. `I am awfully sorry. It is horribly rude. And stupid,
too. And also unpractical, because we have not much time to
lose if we're to get down to that place. The train service is
confoundedly bad, as I happen to know. It's quite out of
proportion to the comparatively small distance.'
`Get down to that place?' I repeated blankly. `Get down to
`I have forgotten its name,' said Basil vaguely, putting his
hands in his pockets as he rose. `Something Common near Purley.
Has any one got a timetable?'
`You don't seriously mean,' cried Rupert, who had been
staring in a sort of confusion of emotions. `You don't mean
that you want to go to Buxton Common, do you? You can't mean
`Why shouldn't I go to Buxton Common?' asked Basil, smiling.
`Why should you?' said his brother, catching hold again
restlessly of the plant in the window and staring at the
`To find our friend, the lieutenant, of course,' said Basil
Grant. `I thought you wanted to find him?'
Rupert broke a branch brutally from the plant and flung it
impatiently on the floor. `And in order to find him,' he said,
`you suggest the admirable expedient of going to the only place
on the habitable earth where we know he can't be.'
The constable and I could not avoid breaking into a kind of
assenting laugh, and Rupert, who had family eloquence, was
encouraged to go on with a reiterated gesture:
`He may be in Buckingham Palace; he may be sitting astride
the cross of St Paul's; he may be in jail (which I think most
likely); he may be in the Great Wheel; he may be in my pantry;
he may be in your store cupboard; but out of all the
innumerable points of space, there is only one where he has
just been systematically looked for and where we know that he
is not to be found---and that, if I understand you rightly, is
where you want us to go.'
`Exactly,' said Basil calmly, getting into his great-coat;
`I thought you might care to accompany me. If not, of course,
make yourselves jolly here till I come back.'
It is our nature always to follow vanishing things and value
them if they really show a resolution to depart. We all
followed Basil, and I cannot say why, except that he was a
vanishing thing, that he vanished decisively with his
great-coat and his stick. Rupert ran after him with a
considerable flurry of rationality.
`My dear chap,' he cried, `do you really mean that you see
any good in going down to this ridiculous scrub, where there is
nothing but beaten tracks and a few twisted trees, simply
because it was the first place that came into a rowdy
lieutenant's head when he wanted to give a lying reference in a
`Yes,' said Basil, taking out his watch, `and, what's worse,
we've lost the train.'
He paused a moment and then added: `As a matter of fact, I
think we may just as well go down later in the day. I have some
writing to do, and I think you told me, Rupert, that you
thought of going to the Dulwich Gallery. I was rather too
impetuous. Very likely he wouldn't be in. But if we get down by
the 5.15, which gets to Purley about 6, I expect we shall just
`Catch him!' cried his brother, in a kind of final anger. `I
wish we could. Where the deuce shall we catch him now?'
`I keep forgetting the name of the common,' said Basil, as
he buttoned up his coat. `The Elms---what is it? Buxton Common,
near Purley. That's where we shall find him.'
`But there is no such place,' groaned Rupert; but he
followed his brother downstairs.
We all followed him. We snatched our hats from the hat-stand
and our sticks from the umbrella-stand; and why we followed him
we did not and do not know. But we always followed him,
whatever was the meaning of the fact, whatever was the nature
of his mastery. And the strange thing was that we followed him
the more completely the more nonsensical appeared the thing
which he said. At bottom, I believe, if he had risen from our
breakfast table and said: `I am going to find the Holy Pig with
Ten Tails,' we should have followed him to the end of the
I don't know whether this mystical feeling of mine about
Basil on this occasion has got any of the dark and cloudy
colour, so to speak, of the strange journey that we made the
same evening. It was already very dense twilight when we struck
southward from Purley. Suburbs and things on the London border
may be, in most cases, commonplace and comfortable. But if ever
by any chance they really are empty solitudes they are to the
human spirit more desolate and dehumanized than any Yorkshire
moors or Highland hills, because the suddenness with which the
traveller drops into that silence has something about it as of
evil elf-land. It seems to be one of the ragged suburbs of the
cosmos half-forgotten by God---such a place was Buxton Common,
There was certainly a sort of grey futility in the landscape
itself. But it was enormously increased by the sense of grey
futility in our expedition. The tracts of grey turf looked
useless, the occasional wind-stricken trees looked useless, but
we, the human beings, more useless than the hopeless turf or
the idle trees. We were maniacs akin to the foolish landscape,
for we were come to chase the wild goose which has led men and
left men in bogs from the beginning. We were three dazed men
under the captaincy of a madman going to look for a man whom we
knew was not there in a house that had no existence. A livid
sunset seemed to look at us with a sort of sickly smile before
Basil went on in front with his coat collar turned up,
looking in the gloom rather like a grotesque Napoleon. We
crossed swell after swell of the windy common in increasing
darkness and entire silence. Suddenly Basil stopped and turned
to us, his hands in his pockets. Through the dusk I could just
detect that he wore a broad grin as of comfortable success.
`Well,' he cried, taking his heavily gloved hands out of his
pockets and slapping them together, `here we are at last.'
The wind swirled sadly over the homeless heath; two desolate
elms rocked above us in the sky like shapeless clouds of grey.
There was not a sign of man or beast to the sullen circle of
the horizon, and in the midst of that wilderness Basil Grant
stood rubbing his hands with the air of an innkeeper standing
at an open door.
`How jolly it is,' he cried, `to get back to civilization.
That notion that civilization isn't poetical is a civilised
delusion. Wait till you've really lost yourself in nature,
among the devilish woodlands and the cruel flowers. Then you'll
know that there's no star like the red star of man that he
lights on his hearthstone; no river like the red river of man,
the good red wine, which you, Mr Rupert Grant, if I have any
knowledge of you, will be drinking in two or three minutes in
Rupert and I exchanged glances of fear. Basil went on
heartily, as the wind died in the dreary trees.
`You'll find our host a much more simple kind of fellow in
his own house. I did when I visited him when he lived in the
cabin at Yarmouth, and again in the loft at the city warehouse.
He's really a very good fellow. But his greatest virtue remains
what I said originally.'
`What do you mean?' I asked, finding his speech straying
towards a sort of sanity. `What is his greatest virtue?'
`His greatest virtue,' replied Basil, `is that he always
tells the literal truth.'
`Well, really,' cried Rupert, stamping about between cold
and anger, and slapping himself like a cabman, `he doesn't seem
to have been very literal or truthful in this case, nor you
either. Why the deuce, may I ask, have you brought us out to
this infernal place?'
`He was too truthful, I confess,' said Basil, leaning
against the tree; `too hardly veracious, too severely accurate.
He should have indulged in a little more suggestiveness and
legitimate romance. But come, it's time we went in. We shall be
late for dinner.'
Rupert whispered to me with a white face:
`Is it a hallucination, do you think? Does he really fancy
he sees a house?'
`I suppose so,' I said. Then I added aloud, in what was
meant to be a cheery and sensible voice, but which sounded in
my ears almost as strange as the wind:
`Come, come, Basil, my dear fellow. Where do you want us to
`Why, up here,' cried Basil, and with a bound and a swing he
was above our heads, swarming up the grey column of the
`Come up, all of you,' he shouted out of the darkness, with
the voice of a schoolboy. `Come up. You'll be late for dinner.'
The two great elms stood so close together that there was
scarcely a yard anywhere, and in some places not more than a
foot, between them. Thus occasional branches and even bosses
and boles formed a series of footholds that almost amounted to
a rude natural ladder. They must, I supposed, have been some
sport of growth, Siamese twins of vegetation.
Why we did it I cannot think; perhaps, as I have said, the
mystery of the waste and dark had brought out and made primary
something wholly mystical in Basil's supremacy. But we only
felt that there was a giant's staircase going somewhere,
perhaps to the stars; and the victorious voice above called to
us out of heaven. We hoisted ourselves up after him.
Half-way up some cold tongue of the night air struck and
sobered me suddenly. The hypnotism of the madman above fell
from me, and I saw the whole map of our silly actions as
clearly as if it were printed. I saw three modern men in black
coats who had begun with a perfectly sensible suspicion of a
doubtful adventurer and who had ended, God knows how, half-way
up a naked tree on a naked moorland, far from that adventurer
and all his works, that adventurer who was at that moment, in
all probability, laughing at us in some dirty Soho restaurant.
He had plenty to laugh at us about, and no doubt he was
laughing his loudest; but when I thought what his laughter
would be if he knew where we were at that moment, I nearly let
go of the tree and fell.
`Swinburne,' said Rupert suddenly, from above, `what are we
doing? Let's get down again,' and by the mere sound of his
voice I knew that he too felt the shock of wakening to reality.
`We can't leave poor Basil,' I said. `Can't you call to him
or get hold of him by the leg?'
`He's too far ahead,' answered Rupert; `he's nearly at the
top of the beastly thing. Looking for Lieutenant Keith in the
rooks' nests, I suppose.'
We were ourselves by this time far on our frantic vertical
journey. The mighty trunks were beginning to sway and shake
slightly in the wind. Then I looked down and saw something
which made me feel that we were far from the world in a sense
and to a degree that I cannot easily describe. I saw that the
almost straight lines of the tall elm trees diminished a little
in perspective as they fell. I was used to seeing parallel
lines taper towards the sky. But to see them taper towards the
earth made me feel lost in space, like a falling star.
`Can nothing be done to stop Basil?' I called out.
`No,' answered my fellow climber. `He's too far up. He must
get to the top, and when he finds nothing but wind and leaves
he may go sane again. Hark at him above there; you can just
hear him talking to himself.'
`Perhaps he's talking to us,' I said.
`No,' said Rupert, `he'd shout if he was. I've never known
him to talk to himself before; I'm afraid he really is bad
tonight; it's a known sign of the brain going.'
`Yes,' I said sadly, and listened. Basil's voice certainly
was sounding above us, and not by any means in the rich and
riotous tones in which he had hailed us before. He was speaking
quietly, and laughing every now and then, up there among the
leaves and stars.
After a silence mingled with this murmur, Rupert Grant
suddenly said, `My God!' with a violent voice.
`What's the matter---are you hurt?' I cried, alarmed.
`No. Listen to Basil,' said the other in a very strange
voice. `He's not talking to himself.'
`Then he is talking to us,' I cried.
`No,' said Rupert simply, `he's talking to somebody else.'
Great branches of the elm loaded with leaves swung about us
in a sudden burst of wind, but when it died down I could still
hear the conversational voice above. I could hear two voices.
Suddenly from aloft came Basil's boisterous hailing voice as
before: `Come up, you fellows. Here's Lieutenant Keith.'
And a second afterwards came the half-American voice we had
heard in our chambers more than once. It called out:
`Happy to see you, gentlemen; pray come in.'
Out of a hole in an enormous dark egg-shaped thing, pendent
in the branches like a wasps' nest, was protruding the pale
face and fierce moustache of the lieutenant, his teeth shining
with that slightly Southern air that belonged to him.
Somehow or other, stunned and speechless, we lifted
ourselves heavily into the opening. We fell into the full glow
of a lamp-lit, cushioned, tiny room, with a circular wall lined
with books, a circular table, and a circular seat around it. At
this table sat three people. One was Basil, who, in the instant
after alighting there, had fallen into an attitude of marmoreal
ease as if he had been there from boyhood; he was smoking a
cigar with a slow pleasure. The second was Lieutenant Drummond
Keith, who looked happy also, but feverish and doubtful
compared with his granite guest. The third was the little
bald-headed house-agent with the wild whiskers, who called
himself Montmorency. The spears, the green umbrella, and the
cavalry sword hung in parallels on the wall. The sealed jar of
strange wine was on the mantelpiece, the enormous rifle in the
corner. In the middle of the table was a magnum of champagne.
Glasses were already set for us.
The wind of the night roared far below us, like an ocean at
the foot of a light-house. The room stirred slightly, as a
cabin might in a mild sea.
Our glasses were filled, and we still sat there dazed and
dumb. Then Basil spoke.
`You seem still a little doubtful, Rupert. Surely there is
no further question about the cold veracity of our injured
`I don't quite grasp it all,' said Rupert, blinking still in
the sudden glare. `Lieutenant Keith said his address was---'
`It's really quite right, sir,' said Keith, with an open
smile. `The bobby asked me where I lived. And I said, quite
truthfully, that I lived in the elms on Buxton Common, near
Purley. So I do. This gentleman, Mr Montmorency, whom I think
you have met before, is an agent for houses of this kind. He
has a special line in arboreal villas. It's being kept rather
quiet at present, because the people who want these houses
don't want them to get too common. But it's just the sort of
thing a fellow like myself, racketing about in all sorts of
queer corners of London, naturally knocks up against.'
`Are you really an agent for arboreal villas?' asked Rupert
eagerly, recovering his ease with the romance of reality.
Mr Montmorency, in his embarrassment, fingered one of his
pockets and nervously pulled out a snake, which crawled about
`W-well, yes, sir,' he said. `The fact was---er---my people
wanted me very much to go into the house-agency business. But I
never cared myself for anything but natural history and botany
and things like that. My poor parents have been dead some years
now, but--- naturally I like to respect their wishes. And I
thought somehow that an arboreal villa agency was a sort
of---of compromise between being a botanist and being a
Rupert could not help laughing. `Do you have much custom?'
`N-not much,' replied Mr Montmorency, and then he glanced at
Keith, who was (I am convinced) his only client. `But what
there is--- very select.'
`My dear friends,' said Basil, puffing his cigar, `always
remember two facts. The first is that though when you are
guessing about any one who is sane, the sanest thing is the
most likely; when you are guessing about any one who is, like
our host, insane, the maddest thing is the most likely. The
second is to remember that very plain literal fact always seems
fantastic. If Keith had taken a little brick box of a house in
Clapham with nothing but railings in front of it and had
written ``The Elms'' over it, you wouldn't have thought there
was anything fantastic about that. Simply because it was a
great blaring, swaggering lie you would have believed it.'
`Drink your wine, gentlemen,' said Keith, laughing, `for
this confounded wind will upset it.'
We drank, and as we did so, although the hanging house, by a
cunning mechanism, swung only slightly, we knew that the great
head of the elm tree swayed in the sky like a stricken thistle.