A Court of Inquiry | Page 9

the Skeptic walked home with her.
He was forced to do it. The Philosopher had disappeared again, quite
without warning, some twenty minutes earlier.
She came over the next afternoon. On the day following she practically
took up her residence with us. I thought of inviting her to bring a trunk
and occupy the white room. On the fourth night I accidentally
overheard a brief but pregnant colloquy which took place just inside the
library door, toward the last of the evening.
"You've got to take her home to-night, old man."
"I won't." It was the Philosopher.
"You've got to. It's your turn. No shirking."
"I'll be hanged if I will."
"I'll be hanged if I will. There's a limit."
"I'd always supposed there was. There doesn't seem to be."
"Come along--stand up to it like a man. It's up to you to-night. She can't
carry you off bodily."
"I'm not so sure of that." The Philosopher's tone was grim.
So far I had been transfixed. But now I hurried away. I was consumed
with anxiety during the next ten minutes, lest they come to blows in
settling it. But when they appeared I could tell that they had settled it
somehow.
When Dahlia arose and said that she positively must go they both

accompanied her. The transit occupied less time than it had done on
any previous occasion.
* * * * *
From this time on there was concerted action on the part of our two
men. Where one was, the other was. The Gay Lady and I received less
attention than we were accustomed to expect--the two men were too
busy standing by each other to have much time for us.
"I'm so sorry," said Dahlia, coming over after dinner on the tenth
evening, "but I'm going away to-morrow. I've an invitation that I'm
simply not allowed to refuse."
The Philosopher's face lit up. He attempted to conceal it by burying his
head in his handkerchief for a moment, in mock distress, but his
satisfaction showed even behind his ears. The Skeptic bent down and
elaborately tied his shoe-ribbon. The Gay Lady regarded Dahlia
sweetly, and said, "That's surely very nice for you."
"I think," observed Dahlia, looking coyly from the Skeptic to the
Philosopher, "that I shall have to let each of you take me for a farewell
walk to-night. You first"--she indicated the Philosopher. "Or shall it be
a row for one and a walk for the other?"
She and the Philosopher strolled away toward the river. There had been
no way out for him.
"The Englishman, the Scotsman and the Irishman," began the Skeptic,
in a conversational tone, "being about to be hanged, were given their
choice of a tree. 'The oak for me,' says the Englishman. 'The Scotch
elm for mine,' says the Scotsman. 'Faith,' says the Irishman, 'I'll be
afther takin' a gooseberry bush.' 'That's too small,' says the hangman.
'I'll wait for it to grow,' says the Irishman contentedly."
Whereat he disappeared. When Dahlia and the Philosopher returned he
had not come back. I was amazed at him, but my amazement did not
produce him, and the Philosopher accompanied Dahlia home. When

they were well away the Skeptic swung himself up over the side of the
porch, from among some bushes.
"'All's fair in love and war,'" he grinned. "Besides, the campaign's over.
Philo's gained experience. He's a veteran now. He'll never be such easy
game again. Haven't we behaved well, on the whole?" he asked the Gay
Lady, dropping upon a cushion at her feet.
"I don't think you have," said the Gay Lady gently.
"We haven't! Why not?"
She shook her head. "I refuse to discuss it," she said, as gently as before,
but quite firmly.
The Skeptic sighed. "I'm sorry," he declared. "You really don't
know----"
"I don't want to know," said the Gay Lady. "Isn't it a lovely, lovely
evening?"
"Yes, it's a lovely evening," said the Skeptic, looking up at her. "It
would be delightful on the river."
She shook her head again.
"Not nicer than here," she answered.
The Philosopher came back. When he was half-way across the lawn the
Skeptic jumped up and rushed forward and offered his shoulder for the
Philosopher to lean upon.
"Clear out," said the Philosopher shortly.
"I'm glad to hear it," rejoined the Skeptic. "I feared you might be clear
in."
"It's not your fault that I'm not," grunted the Philosopher.

He dropped down upon the porch step in an exhausted way.
The Gay Lady rose.
"The air is making me sleepy," said she in her musically sweet voice.
"Good-night."
The Skeptic and the Philosopher looked after her retreating figure even
after it ceased to be visible, drifting down the wide, central hall.
"The worst of it is," grumbled the Skeptic, "that