n matters of moment, other than the
fortunes of Anthony, occupied another half-hour, when, after exchanging
addresses, the two men parted, pledged to meet again in seven days'
time.

The Judge walked home thoughtfully.

The queer little play was almost over. The strange human document
which it had pleased him to piece together was almost whole. He found
himself wondering why he had shown such solicitude. After all, who was
this Anthony Lyveden? Why had he been at such pains to set this beggar
upon horseback? Perhaps Fate had meant him to walk.... If she had,
she was playing a curious game. Thanks to her efforts, the fellow's
toe was practically in the stirrup. And he himself--Lyveden--had no
idea of it....

Mr. Justice Molehill smiled.

It was really an entertaining little play. Until it was time for his
entrance, the leading character would not even know that he was taking
part. There he was----

The smile died suddenly, as the reflection lost its savour.

Where? Where was the leading character? Supposing, when the time
came, he could not be found.... Into what a dismal fiasco the play
would turn. All his interest would have been thrown away. His
solicitors would have been investigating a lost cause. Forest would
have been sent packing back to Rome upon a fool's errand....

Mr. Justice Molehill gnawed at his lower lip.

There was no doubt about it. For some reason which, for all his
prudence, he could not perceive, this Hecuba was a great deal to him.

His bewilderment may be excused. The reason was out of his ken. The
truth is, there was a ghost to be laid, and Fate had chosen him for the
job. Judge or corner-boy, the man himself did not matter. The lot
falling upon him, he had become in this adventure the particular agent
of Fate.

King or herdsman, jester or sage, croupier or harridan--lend her what
personality you please--Fate hath the reins and so the laugh of the
universe. Ever at its rump, her pricks are insensible alike to kicks
or kisses. Folly, sceptre or rake in hand, she stands or sprawls upon
Eternity, bending the ages to her whim. And we, poor things, at once
her instruments and butts, stumble about her business, thinking it
ours, setting each other up, bringing each other low, spoking each
other's wheels and all the time, wise in our own conceit, basking in
the sunshine of our fine free-will, like lack-brains toasting their
shanks before an empty cage.

A Napoleon i