13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

even noticed the oddity of that.

'Yes, yes,' he said soothingly. 'And you were pilloried in Palace Yard, weren't you?'

'That's right,' said Mr. Oates eagerly. 'And outside the Royal Exchange. They put me in prison for life, but they let me out at the Revolution and gave me my pension back.'

Dr. Jethero made clucking noises with his tongue.

'I see. A very unfortunate business. Would you mind com­ing this way, Mr. Oates?'

He led the way up the stairs, and Mr. Oates followed him blissfully. The whole rigmarole seemed very childish, but if it pleased Dr. Jethero, Mr. Oates was prepared to go to any lengths to humour him. The white-coated attendant followed Mr. Oates. Dr. Jethero opened the door of a room on the second floor, and stood aside for Mr. Oates to pass in. The door had a barred grille in its upper panels through which the interior of the room could be observed from the outside, an eccentricity which Mr. Oates was still ready to accept as being in keeping with the character of his host.

It was the interior of the room into which he was shown that began to place an excessive strain on his adaptability. It was without furnishings of any kind, unless the thick kind of mattress in one corner could be called furnishings, and the walls and floor were finished in some extraordinary style of decoration which made them look like quilted upholstery.

Mr. Oates looked about him, and turned puzzledly to his host.

'Well,' he said, 'where's the stamp?'

'What stamp?' asked Dr. Jethero.

Mr. Oates's laboriously achieved restraint was wearing thin again.

'Don't you understand? I'm Titus Oates. I was whipped from Aldgate to Newgate, and from Newgate to Tyburn. Didn't you hear what I said?'

'Yes, yes, yes,' murmured the doctor peaceably. 'You're Titus Oates. You stood in the pillory and they pelted you with rotten eggs.'

'Well,' said Mr. Oates, 'what about the stamp?'

Dr. Jethero cleared his throat.

'Just a minute, Mr. Oates. Suppose we go into that pres­ently. Would you mind taking off your coat and shoes?'

Mr. Oates gaped at him.

'This is going too far,' he protested. 'I'm Titus Oates. Everybody know Titus Oates. You remember—the Popish Plot——'

'Mr. Oates,' said the doctor sternly, 'will you take off your coat and shoes?'

The white-coated attendant was advancing stealthily to­wards him, and a sudden vague fear seized on the financier. Now he began to see the reason for the man's extraordinary behaviour. He was not crotchety. He was potty. He was worse—he must be a raving homicidal lunatic. Heaven knew what he would be doing next. A wild desire to be away from number 105 Matlock Gardens gripped Mr. Oates—a desire that could not even be quelled by the urge to possess a twopenny blue Mauritius in perfect preservation.

'Never mind,' said Mr. Oates liberally. 'I'm not really interested. I don't collect stamps at all. I'm just Titus Oates. Everyone knows me. I'm sure you'll excuse me—I have an appointment——'

He was edging towards the door, but Dr. Jethero stood in the way.

'Nobody's going to hurt you, Mr. Oates,' he said; and then he caught the desperate gleam in Mr. Oates's eye, and signed quickly to the