Barr Robert
The Triumphs of Eugène Valmont
5. The Absent-Minded Coterie
Some years ago I enjoyed the unique experience of pursuing a man for one crime, and getting evidence against him of another. He was innocent of the misdemeanour, the proof of which I sought, but was guilty of another most serious offence, yet he and his confederates escaped scot-free in circumstances which I now purpose to relate.
You may remember that in Rudyard Kipling's story, Bedalia Herodsfoot, the unfortunate woman's husband ran the risk of being arrested as a simple drunkard, at a moment when the blood of murder was upon his boots. The case of Ralph Summertrees was rather the reverse of this. The English authorities were trying to fasten upon him a crime almost as important as murder, while I was collecting evidence which proved him guilty of an action much more momentous than that of drunkenness.
The English authorities have always been good enough, when they recognise my existence at all, to look down upon me with amused condescension. If today you ask Spenser Hale, of Scotland Yard, what he thinks of Eugène Valmont, that complacent man will put on the superior smile which so well becomes him, and if you are a very intimate friend of his, he may draw down the lid of his right eye, as he replies,—
'Oh, yes, a very decent fellow, Valmont, but he's a Frenchman,' as if, that said, there was no need of further inquiry.
Myself, I like the English detective very much, and if I were to be in a mêlée tomorrow, there is no man I would rather find beside me than Spenser Hale. In any situation where a fist that can fell an ox is desirable, my friend Hale is a useful companion, but for intellectuality, mental acumen, finesse—ah, well! I am the most modest of men, and will say nothing.
It would amuse you to see this giant come into my room during an evening, on the bluff pretence that he wishes to smoke a pipe with me. There is the same difference between this good-natured giant and myself as exists between that strong black pipe of his and my delicate cigarette, which I smoke feverishly when he is present, to protect myself from the fumes of his terrible tobacco. I look with delight upon the huge man, who, with an air of the utmost good humour, and a twinkle in his eye as he thinks he is twisting me about his finger, vainly endeavours to obtain a hint regarding whatever case is perplexing him at that moment. I baffle him with the ease that an active greyhound eludes the pursuit of a heavy mastiff, then at last I say to him with a laugh,—
'Come mon ami Hale, tell me all about it, and I will help you if I can.'
Once or twice at the beginning he shook his massive head, and replied the secret was not his. The last time he did this I assured him that what he said was quite correct, and then I related full particulars of the situation in which he found himself, excepting the names, for these he had not mentioned. I had pieced together his perplexity from scraps of conversation in his half-hour's fishing for my advice, which, of course, he could have had for the plain asking. Since that time he has not come to me except with cases he feels at liberty to reveal, and one or two complications I have happily been enabled to unravel for him.
But, staunch as Spenser Hale holds the belief that no detective service on earth can excel that centring in Scotland Yard, there is one department of activity in which even he confesses that Frenchmen are his masters, although he somewhat grudgingly qualifies his admission by adding that we in France are constantly allowed to do what is prohibited in England. I refer to the minute search of a house during the owner's absence. If you read that excellent story, entitled The Purloined Letter, by Edgar Allan Poe, you will find a record of the kind of thing I mean, which is better than any description I, who have so often taken part in such a search, can set down.
Now, these people among whom I live are proud of their phrase, 'The Englishman's house is his castle,' and into that castle even a policeman cannot penetrate without a legal warrant. This may be all very well in theory, but if you are compelled to march up to a man's house, blowing a trumpet, and rattling a snare drum, you need not be disappointed if you fail to find what you are in search of when all the legal restrictions are complied with. Of course, the English are a very excellent people, a fact to which I am always proud to bear testimony, but it must be admitted that for cold common sense the French are very much their superiors. In Paris, if I wish to obtain an incriminating document, I do not send the possessor a carte postale to inform him of my desire, and in this procedure the French people sanely acquiesce. I have known men who, when they go out to spend an evening on the boulevards, toss their bunch of keys to the concierge, saying,—
'If you hear the police rummaging about while I'm away, pray assist them, with an expression of my distinguished consideration.'
I remember while I was chief detective in the service of the French Government being requested to call at a certain hour at the private hotel of the Minister for Foreign Affairs. It was during the time that Bismarck meditated a second attack upon my country, and I am happy to say that I was then instrumental in supplying the Secret Bureau with documents which mollified that iron man's purpose, a fact which I think entitled me to my country's gratitude, not that I ever even hinted such a claim when a succeeding ministry forgot my services. The memory of a republic, as has been said by a greater man than I, is short. However, all that has nothing to do with the incident I am about to relate. I merely mention the crisis to excuse a momentary forgetfulness on my part which in any other country might have been followed by serious results to myself. But in France—ah, we understand those things, and nothing happened.
I am the last person in the world to give myself away, as they say in the great West. I am usually the calm, collected Eugène Valmont whom nothing can perturb, but this was a time of great tension, and I had become absorbed. I was alone with the minister in his private house, and one of the papers he desired was in his bureau at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs; at least, he thought so, and said,—
'Ah, it is in my desk at the bureau. How annoying! I must send for it!'
'No, Excellency,' I cried, springing up in a self-oblivion the most complete, 'it is here.' Touching the spring of a secret drawer, I opened it, and taking out the document he wished, handed it to him.
It was not until I met his searching look, and saw the faint smile on his lips that I realised what I had done.
'Valmont,' he said quietly, 'on whose behalf did you search my house?'
'Excellency,' I replied in tones no less agreeable than his own, 'tonight at your orders I pay a domiciliary visit to the mansion of Baron Dumoulaine, who stands high in the estimation of the President of the French Republic. If either of those distinguished gentlemen should learn of my informal call and should ask me in whose interests I made the domiciliary visit, what is it you wish that I should reply?'
'You should reply, Valmont, that you did it in the interests of the Secret Service.'
'I shall not fail to do so, Excellency, and in answer to your question just now, I had the honour of searching this mansion in the interests of the Secret Service of France.'
The Minister for Foreign Affairs laughed; a hearty laugh that expressed no resentment.
'I merely wished to compliment you, Valmont, on the efficiency of your search, and the excellence of your memory. This is indeed the document which I thought was left in my office.'
I wonder what Lord Lansdowne would say if Spenser Hale showed an equal familiarity with his private papers! But now that we have returned to our good friend Hale, we must not keep him waiting any longer.
I well remember the November day when I first heard of the Summertrees case, because there hung over London a fog so thick that two or three times I lost my way, and no cab was to be had at any price. The few cabmen then in the streets were leading their animals slowly along, making for their stables. It was one of those depressing London days which filled me with ennui and a yearning for my own clear city of Paris, where, if we are ever visited by a slight mist, it is at least clean, white vapour, and not this horrible London mixture saturated with suffocating carbon. The fog was too thick for any passer to read the contents bills of the newspapers plastered on the pavement, and as there were probably no races that day the newsboys were shouting what they considered the next most important event—the election of an American President. I bought a paper and thrust it into my pocket. It was late when I reached my flat, and, after dining there, which was an unusual thing for me to do, I put on my slippers, took an easy-chair before the fire, and began to read my evening journal. I was distressed to learn that the eloquent Mr. Bryan had been defeated. I knew little about the silver question, but the man's oratorical powers had appealed to me, and my sympathy was aroused because he owned many silver mines, and yet the price of the metal was so low that apparently he could not make a living through the operation of them. But, of course, the cry that he was a plutocrat, and a reputed millionaire over and over again, was bound to defeat him in a democracy where the average voter is exceedingly poor and not comfortably well-to-do as is the case with our peasants in France. I always took great interest in the affairs of the huge republic to the west, having been at some pains to inform myself accurately regarding its politics, and although, as my readers know, I seldom quote anything complimentary that is said of me, nevertheless, an American client of mine once admitted that he never knew the true inwardness—I think that was the phrase he used—of American politics until he heard me discourse upon them. But then, he added, he had been a very busy man all his life.
I had allowed my paper to slip to the floor, for in very truth the fog was penetrating even into my flat, and it was becoming difficult to read, notwithstanding the electric light. My man came in, and announced that Mr. Spenser Hale wished to see me, and, indeed, any night, but especially when there is rain or fog outside, I am more pleased to talk with a friend than to read a newspaper.
'Mon Dieu, my dear Monsieur Hale, it is a brave man you are to venture out in such a fog as is abroad tonight.'
'Ah, Monsieur Valmont,' said Hale with pride, 'you cannot raise a fog like this in Paris!'
'No. There you are supreme,' I admitted, rising and saluting my visitor, then offering him a chair.
'I see you are reading the latest news,' he said, indicating my newspaper, 'I am very glad that man Bryan is defeated. Now we shall have better times.'
I waved my hand as I took my chair again. I will discuss many things with Spenser Hale, but not American politics; he does not understand them. It is a common defect of the English to suffer complete ignorance regarding the internal affairs of other countries.
'It is surely an important thing that brought you out on such a night as this. The fog must be very thick in Scotland Yard.'
This delicate shaft of fancy completely missed him, and he answered stolidly,—
'It's thick all over London, and, indeed, throughout most of England.'
'Yes, it is,' I agreed, but he did not see that either.
Still a moment later he made a remark which, if it had come from some people I know, might have indicated a glimmer of comprehension.
'You are a very, very clever man, Monsieur Valmont, so all I need say is that the question which brought me here is the same as that on which the American election was fought. Now, to a countryman, I should be compelled to give further explanation, but to you, monsieur, that will not be necessary.'
There are times when I dislike the crafty smile and partial closing of the eyes which always distinguishes Spenser Hale when he places on the table a problem which he expects will baffle me. If I said he never did baffle me, I would be wrong, of course, for sometimes the utter simplicity of the puzzles which trouble him leads me into an intricate involution entirely unnecessary in the circumstances.
I pressed my fingertips together, and gazed for a few moments at the ceiling. Hale had lit his black pipe, and my silent servant placed at his elbow the whisky and soda, then tiptoed out of the room. As the door closed my eyes came from the ceiling to the level of Hale's expansive countenance.
'Have they eluded you?' I asked quietly.
'Who?'
'The coiners.'
Hale's pipe dropped from his jaw, but he managed to catch it before it reached the floor. Then he took a gulp from the tumbler.
'That was just a lucky shot,' he said.
'Parfaitement,' I replied carelessly.
'Now, own up, Valmont, wasn't it?'
I shrugged my shoulders. A man cannot contradict a guest in his own house.
'Oh, stow that!' cried Hale impolitely. He is a trifle prone to strong and even slangy expressions when puzzled. 'Tell me how you guessed it.'
'It is very simple, mon ami. The question on which the American election was fought is the price of silver, which is so low that it has ruined Mr. Bryan, and threatens to ruin all the farmers of the west who possess silver mines on their farms. Silver troubled America, ergo silver troubles Scotland Yard.
'Very well, the natural inference is that someone has stolen bars of silver. But such a theft happened three months ago, when the metal was being unloaded from a German steamer at Southampton, and my dear friend Spenser Hale ran down the thieves very cleverly as they were trying to dissolve the marks off the bars with acid. Now crimes do not run in series, like the numbers in roulette at Monte Carlo. The thieves are men of brains. They say to themselves, "What chance is there successfully to steal bars of silver while Mr. Hale is at Scotland Yard?" Eh, my good friend?'
'Really, Valmont,' said Hale, taking another sip, 'sometimes you almost persuade me that you have reasoning powers.'
'Thanks, comrade. Then it is not a theft of silver we have now to deal with. But the American election was fought on the price of silver. If silver had been high in cost, there would have been no silver question. So the crime that is bothering you arises through the low price of silver, and this suggests that it must be a case of illicit coinage, for there the low price of the metal comes in. You have, perhaps, found a more subtle illegitimate act going forward than heretofore. Someone is making your shillings and your half-crowns from real silver, instead of from baser metal, and yet there is a large profit which has not hitherto been possible through the high price of silver. With the old conditions you were familiar, but this new element sets at nought all your previous formulae. That is how I reasoned the matter out.'
'Well, Valmont, you have hit it. I'll say that for you; you have hit it. There is a gang of expert coiners who are putting out real silver money, and making a clear shilling on the half-crown. We can find no trace of the coiners, but we know the man who is shoving the stuff.'
'That ought to be sufficient,' I suggested.
'Yes, it should, but it hasn't proved so up to date. Now I came tonight to see if you would do one of your French tricks for us, right on the quiet.'
'What French trick, Monsieur Spenser Hale?' I inquired with some asperity, forgetting for the moment that the man invariably became impolite when he grew excited.
'No offence intended,' said this blundering officer, who really is a good-natured fellow, but always puts his foot in it, and then apologises. 'I want someone to go through a man's house without a search warrant, spot the evidence, let me know, and then we'll rush the place before he has time to hide his tracks.'
'Who is this man, and where does he live?'
'His name is Ralph Summertrees, and he lives in a very natty little bijou residence, as the advertisements call it, situated in no less a fashionable street than Park Lane.'
'I see. What has aroused your suspicions against him?'
'Well, you know, that's an expensive district to live in; it takes a bit of money to do the trick. This Summertrees has no ostensible business, yet every Friday he goes to the United Capital Bank in Piccadilly, and deposits a bag of swag, usually all silver coin.'
'Yes, and this money?'
'This money, so far as we can learn, contains a good many of these new pieces which never saw the British Mint.'
'It's not all the new coinage, then?'
'Oh, no, he's a bit too artful for that. You see, a man can go round London, his pockets filled with new coinage five-shilling pieces, buy this, that, and the other, and come home with his change in legitimate coins of the realm—half-crowns, florins, shillings, sixpences, and all that.'
'I see. Then why don't you nab him one day when his pockets are stuffed with illegitimate five-shilling pieces?'
'That could be done, of course, and I've thought of it, but you see, we want to land the whole gang. Once we arrested him, without knowing where the money came from, the real coiners would take flight.'
'How do you know he is not the real coiner himself?'
Now poor Hale is as easy to read as a book. He hesitated before answering this question, and looked confused as a culprit caught in some dishonest act.
'You need not be afraid to tell me,' I said soothingly after a pause. 'You have had one of your men in Mr. Summertrees' house, and so learned that he is not the coiner. But your man has not succeeded in getting you evidence to incriminate other people.'
'You've about hit it again, Monsieur Valmont. One of my men has been Summertrees' butler for two weeks, but, as you say, he has found no evidence.'
'Is he still butler?'
'Yes.'
'Now tell me how far you have got. You know that Summertrees deposits a bag of coin every Friday in the Piccadilly bank, and I suppose the bank has allowed you to examine one or two of the bags.'
'Yes, sir, they have, but, you see, banks are very difficult to treat with. They don't like detectives bothering round, and whilst they do not stand out against the law, still they never answer any more questions than they're asked, and Mr. Summertrees has been a good customer at the United Capital for many years.'
'Haven't you found out where the money comes from?'
'Yes, we have; it is brought there night after night by a man who looks like a respectable city clerk, and he puts it into a large safe, of which he holds the key, this safe being on the ground floor, in the dining-room.'
'Haven't you followed the clerk?'
'Yes. He sleeps in the Park Lane house every night, and goes up in the morning to an old curiosity shop in Tottenham Court Road, where he stays all day, returning with his bag of money in the evening.'
'Why don't you arrest and question him?'
'Well, Monsieur Valmont, there is just the same objection to his arrest as to that of Summertrees himself. We could easily arrest both, but we have not the slightest evidence against either of them, and then, although we put the go-betweens in clink, the worst criminals of the lot would escape.'
'Nothing suspicious about the old curiosity shop?'
'No. It appears to be perfectly regular.'
'This game has been going on under your noses for how long?'
'For about six weeks.'
'Is Summertrees a married man?'
'No.'
'Are there any women servants in the house?'
'No, except that three charwomen come in every morning to do up the rooms.'
'Of what is his household comprised?'
'There is the butler, then the valet, and last, the French cook.'
'Ah,' cried I, 'the French cook! This case interests me. So Summertrees has succeeded in completely disconcerting your man? Has he prevented him going from top to bottom of the house?'
'Oh no, he has rather assisted him than otherwise. On one occasion he went to the safe, took out the money, had Podgers—that's my chap's name—help him to count it, and then actually sent Podgers to the bank with the bag of coin.'
'And Podgers has been all over the place?'
'Yes.'
'Saw no signs of a coining establishment?'
'No. It is absolutely impossible that any coining can be done there. Besides, as I tell you, that respectable clerk brings him the money.'
'I suppose you want me to take Podgers' position?'
'Well, Monsieur Valmont, to tell you the truth, I would rather you didn't. Podgers has done everything a man can do, but I thought if you got into the house, Podgers assisting, you might go through it night after night at your leisure.'
'I see. That's just a little dangerous in England. I think I should prefer to assure myself the legitimate standing of being the amiable Podgers' successor. You say that Summertrees has no business?'
'Well, sir, not what you might call a business. He is by the way of being an author, but I don't count that any business.'
'Oh, an author, is he? When does he do his writing?'
'He locks himself up most of the day in his study.'
'Does he come out for lunch?'
'No; he lights a little spirit lamp inside, Podgers tells me, and makes himself a cup of coffee, which he takes with a sandwich or two.'
'That's rather frugal fare for Park Lane.'
'Yes, Monsieur Valmont, it is, but he makes it up in the evening, when he has a long dinner with all them foreign kickshaws you people like, done by his French cook.'
'Sensible man! Well, Hale, I see I shall look forward with pleasure to making the acquaintance of Mr. Summertrees. Is there any restriction on the going and coming of your man Podgers?'
'None in the least. He can get away either night or day.'
'Very good, friend Hale, bring him here tomorrow, as soon as our author locks himself up in his study, or rather, I should say, as soon as the respectable clerk leaves for Tottenham Court Road, which I should guess, as you put it, is about half an hour after his master turns the key of the room in which he writes.'
'You are quite right in that guess, Valmont. How did you hit it?'
'Merely a surmise, Hale. There is a good deal of oddity about that Park Lane house, so it doesn't surprise me in the least that the master gets to work earlier in the morning than the man. I have also a suspicion that Ralph Summertrees knows perfectly well what the estimable Podgers is there for.'
'What makes you think that?'
'I can give no reason except that my opinion of the acuteness of Summertrees has been gradually rising all the while you were speaking, and at the same time my estimate of Podgers' craft has been as steadily declining. However, bring the man here tomorrow, that I may ask him a few questions.'
Next day, about eleven o'clock, the ponderous Podgers, hat in hand, followed his chief into my room. His broad, impassive, immobile smooth face gave him rather more the air of a genuine butler than I had expected, and this appearance, of course, was enhanced by his livery. His replies to my questions were those of a well-trained servant who will not say too much unless it is made worth his while. All in all, Podgers exceeded my expectations, and really my friend Hale had some justification for regarding him, as he evidently did, a triumph in his line.
'Sit down, Mr. Hale, and you, Podgers.'
The man disregarded my invitation, standing like a statue until his chief made a motion; then he dropped into a chair. The English are great on discipline.
'Now, Mr. Hale, I must first congratulate you on the make-up of Podgers. It is excellent. You depend less on artificial assistance than we do in France, and in that I think you are right.'
'Oh, we know a bit over here, Monsieur Valmont,' said Hale, with pardonable pride.
'Now then, Podgers, I want to ask you about this clerk. What time does he arrive in the evening?'
'At prompt six, sir.'
'Does he ring, or let himself in with a latchkey?'
'With a latchkey, sir.'
'How does he carry the money?'
'In a little locked leather satchel, sir, flung over his shoulder.'
'Does he go direct to the dining-room?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Have you seen him unlock the safe and put in the money?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Does the safe unlock with a word or a key?'
'With a key, sir. It's one of the old-fashioned kind.'
'Then the clerk unlocks his leather money bag?'
'Yes, sir.'
'That's three keys used within as many minutes. Are they separate or in a bunch?'
'In a bunch, sir.'
'Did you ever see your master with this bunch of keys?'
'No, sir.'
'You saw him open the safe once, I am told?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Did he use a separate key, or one of a bunch?'
Podgers slowly scratched his head, then said,—
'I don't just remember, sir.'
'Ah, Podgers, you are neglecting the big things in that house. Sure you can't remember?'
'No, sir.'
'Once the money is in and the safe locked up, what does the clerk do?'
'Goes to his room, sir.'
'Where is this room?'
'On the third floor, sir.'
'Where do you sleep?'
'On the fourth floor with the rest of the servants, sir.'
'Where does the master sleep?'
'On the second floor, adjoining his study.'
'The house consists of four stories and a basement, does it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I have somehow arrived at the suspicion that it is a very narrow house. Is that true?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Does the clerk ever dine with your master?'
'No, sir. The clerk don't eat in the house at all, sir.'
'Does he go away before breakfast?'
'No, sir.'
'No one takes breakfast to his room?'
'No, sir.'
'What time does he leave the house?'
'At ten o'clock, sir.'
'When is breakfast served?'
'At nine o'clock, sir.'
'At what hour does your master retire to his study?'
'At half-past nine, sir.'
'Locks the door on the inside?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Never rings for anything during the day?'
'Not that I know of, sir.'
'What sort of a man is he?'
Here Podgers was on familiar ground, and he rattled off a description minute in every particular.
'What I meant was, Podgers, is he silent, or talkative, or does he get angry? Does he seem furtive, suspicious, anxious, terrorised, calm, excitable, or what?'
'Well, sir, he is by way of being very quiet, never has much to say for himself; never saw him angry, or excited.'
'Now, Podgers, you've been at Park Lane for a fortnight or more. You are a sharp, alert, observant man. What happens there that strikes you as unusual?'
'Well, I can't exactly say, sir,' replied Podgers, looking rather helplessly from his chief to myself, and back again.
'Your professional duties have often compelled you to enact the part of butler before, otherwise you wouldn't do it so well. Isn't that the case.'
Podgers did not reply, but glanced at his chief. This was evidently a question pertaining to the service, which a subordinate was not allowed to answer. However, Hale said at once,—
'Certainly. Podgers has been in dozens of places.'
'Well, Podgers, just call to mind some of the other households where you have been employed, and tell me any particulars in which Mr Summertrees' establishment differs from them.'
Podgers pondered a long time.
'Well, sir, he do stick to writing pretty close.'
'Ah, that's his profession, you see, Podgers. Hard at it from half-past nine till towards seven, I imagine?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Anything else, Podgers? No matter how trivial.'
'Well, sir, he's fond of reading too; leastways, he's fond of newspapers.'
'When does he read?'
'I've never seen him read 'em, sir; indeed, so far as I can tell, I never knew the papers to be opened, but he takes them all in, sir.'
'What, all the morning papers?'
'Yes, sir, and all the evening papers too.'
'Where are the morning papers placed?'
'On the table in his study, sir.'
'And the evening papers?'
'Well, sir, when the evening papers come, the study is locked. They are put on a side table in the dining-room, and he takes them upstairs with him to his study.'
'This has happened every day since you've been there?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You reported that very striking fact to your chief, of course?'
'No, sir, I don't think I did,' said Podgers, confused.
'You should have done so. Mr. Hale would have known how to make the most of a point so vital.'
'Oh, come now, Valmont,' interrupted Hale, 'you're chaffing us. Plenty of people take in all the papers!'
'I think not. Even clubs and hotels subscribe to the leading journals only. You said all, I think, Podgers?'
'Well, nearly all, sir.'
'But which is it? There's a vast difference.'
'He takes a good many, sir.'
'How many?'
'I don't just know, sir.'
'That's easily found out, Valmont,' cried Hale, with some impatience, 'if you think it really important.'
'I think it so important that I'm going back with Podgers myself. You can take me into the house, I suppose, when you return?'
'Oh, yes, sir.'
'Coming back to these newspapers for a moment, Podgers. What is done with them?'
'They are sold to the ragman, sir, once a week.'
'Who takes them from the study?'
'I do, sir.'
'Do they appear to have been read very carefully?'
'Well, no, sir; leastways, some of them seem never to have been opened, or else folded up very carefully again.'
'Did you notice that extracts have been clipped from any of them?'
'No, sir.'
'Does Mr. Summertrees keep a scrapbook?'
'Not that I know of, sir.'
'Oh, the case is perfectly plain,' said I, leaning back in my chair, and regarding the puzzled Hale with that cherubic expression of self-satisfaction which I know is so annoying to him.
'What's perfectly plain?' he demanded, more gruffly perhaps than etiquette would have sanctioned.
'Summertrees is no coiner, nor is he linked with any band of coiners.'
'What is he, then?'
'Ah, that opens another avenue of enquiry. For all I know to the contrary, he may be the most honest of men. On the surface it would appear that he is a reasonably industrious tradesman in Tottenham Court Road, who is anxious that there should be no visible connection between a plebian employment and so aristocratic a residence as that in Park Lane.'
At this point Spenser Hale gave expression to one of those rare flashes of reason which are always an astonishment to his friends.
