Of the actual performance of the Hailey Compton pageant it is surely unnecessary to give any account here. Every newspaper in England devoted columns to the description of the brilliant scene. It is impossible for anyone to have escaped reading something about it and, knowing that it was an immense success, perhaps the most popular show since the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria. The least observant among us can scarcely have helped looking at the picture of the last Prime Minister, in a silk hat and frock coat, shaking hands with Lord Colavon, the helmsman of the lugger, who was attired, in spite of Sir Evelyn's antiquarian scruples, in white flannels and a yachting cap. Quite as widely reproduced was the photograph of the bishop patting the head of one of the pack horses, while the two girls responsible for it stood beside him with chaste smiles, as if they expected to have their heads patted when the bishop had done with the horse; which indeed happened to both of them, though the photographs of that patting were not published.

The day of the performance was singularly fine, which was pure luck, but helped greatly towards its success. Had it been raining or even drizzling the great scene would almost certainly have been a failure. The flare on the church tower might have smoked instead of blazing. The signal lamps on the lugger out at sea would have been invisible on shore. But it was not luck, it was skill, which chose the exact moment for the arrival of the lugger. An hour earlier, when the glow of the setting sun was still strong, the blaze on the tower would have been unimpressive, and the flashing lights at sea would have escaped notice altogether. An hour or two hours later, when the twilight had died away, it would have been impossible for the spectators to see what happened when the lugger reached the cave. But Mrs. Eames—Sir Evelyn got the credit in the newspapers but Mrs. Eames deserved it—chose what Beth in a description of the performance called the psychological moment. It was just dark enough for the signal lights to make a good display, and there was still light enough to allow the operations of landing the cargo to be observed.

It was skill and not luck which selected the day for the performance, and here the credit belongs almost entirely to Lord Colavon. He discovered a day—perhaps the only day during the whole of that summer—when there was nothing else of great importance going on. Ascot was over. The Wimbledon Tennis Tournament had not yet begun. There was a pause between the first and second Test Matches. Yachts had not yet begun to race in popular waters. Interest in the regatta at Henley had died away. The fashionable world and that greater public which amuses itself in fashionable ways had nowhere particular to go on that particular day; no engagements and nothing fresh to talk about. The Hailey Compton Pageant filled a gap.

It had been very well advertised, again a matter of skill, though mingled with luck. It was Beth Appleby who deserved praise for the advertising. She did not, indeed—no single person could—write all the preparatory notes and articles which appeared for weeks beforehand. She did not supply the papers with all the photographs they published. Other journalists, discovering and developing the popularity of the pageant, earned their guineas. But it was Beth who did the spade work and forced the pageant on the attention of editors who might otherwise not have noticed it. Her character sketch of James Hinton—"Valet and Artist"—attracted attention in a popular Sunday paper. A study of Mrs. Eames as an enthusiastic and successful reviver of the best features of mediÆval village life, with its apt quotations from Blake's poems—"Dark, satanic mills" and "England's green and pleasant land"—won the sympathy and support of the intellectual neo-Catholics, a school of writers who still possess a great, though diminishing influence among the members of suburban literary societies. Her intimate account of Sir Evelyn's home life—"Studious research and patient pursuits of original sources"—was read, or at all events talked of, all over Oxford. It was she who circulated the first published photograph of the cave, several "camera portraits" of old Bunce, of the mentally deficient Whittle, and of Lord Colavon seated at the steering wheel of the Pallas Athene. Her success stimulated other photographers, and the press was flooded, though by no means sated, with snapshots of every person and place connected with the pageant. There was even, in one paper, a picture of Mr. Linker, standing, with a smile on his face, in front of the door of his shop in Morriton St. James.

The results of all this care, thought and skill, were obvious early on the afternoon of the great day. People had talked to each other about Hailey Compton and wondered where it was. Newspapers found themselves obliged to publish road maps, often very inaccurate, to satisfy this desire for information. Motor-cars of every size and make converged on the stretch of down land above the cliffs, followed each other in a long procession along the road, and plunged, one after another, down the twisting lane. There were no accidents, because it was impossible for any car to break free from control and rush down the hill. When any brakes failed or any driver lost his nerve, his car merely bumped gently into the one in front. There was not room for it to gather dangerous speed before the collision and to produce disaster it would have had to push, not one or two but at least a hundred cars in front of it, a thing impossible for any single car to do.

A little more than half-way down the hill Mr. Linker had established a kind of toll-gate through which no car was allowed to pass without the payment of a fee. Some people resented this interference with the freedom of the King's highway, but their protests were futile. They never had time to say much or express their feelings fully, for the pressure of the cars behind drove theirs forward while they were still arguing about their rights. The takings at this toll-gate were enormous.

The catering for the multitude—preliminary afternoon tea and cold supper afterwards—was managed by James Hinton. There was, late in the evening, a shortage of ham, tongue and lamb, for the numbers exceeded all expectation. But the cold beef held out until the end and there was no failure of salad.

For Mrs. Eames the day was one of unmixed and rapturous delight. Every single part of the performance went without a hitch, exactly as she had planned it. Even the mermaid dance—Mary Lambert and twenty village girls along the margin of the sea—was successful, a surprising thing and highly creditable to every one concerned in it, for it was very difficult to dance gracefully over large, round stones.

Sir Evelyn was well pleased with himself and everyone else. His introductory speech, those few words, without which no function of any sort can get started, were taken down by eager reporters, and cheered by all who could hear them and many who could not. He had on one side of him the Chief of his Party, who shook hands with him in warm congratulation when the performance was over, and on the other side, the bishop, who graciously expressed a wish that the whole thing might be done again in the grounds of his palace, fifty miles inland, for the benefit of the cathedral funds. Other eminent men and women who clustered behind him, were fluent in their compliments, which was easy for them, because each one had come with a neat little speech prepared, in case, as each one hoped, such a thing should be required.

Sir Evelyn felt that he was once more in his proper place, almost as prominent as he had been and hoped to be again when his Party was in power and he was a Cabinet Minister. But though pleased and satisfied, Sir Evelyn was exceedingly tired when the affair was over. His labours had begun long before he arrived at Hailey Compton for the performance, and continued for two whole days after the pageant was over. He entertained for the occasion all the more eminent patrons of the pageant, and they made a difficult party to manage. The bishop was as suave and smiling as a Christian prelate ought to be, and he got on very well with the young actress who talked with him in the latest slang. But he did not get on equally well with the titled doctor who happened to be an anti-Christian by temperament, and wanted to repeat all the witticisms he had ever heard about the Church when he found himself, a little unexpectedly, in distinguished company. There were moments of anxiety when the judge, who was strongly prejudiced against all doctors, insisted on saying what he thought about expert medical witnesses, and the evidence they gave. Beth Appleby and Mary Lambert would, perhaps, have been no great help to Sir Evelyn even if they had been still at the Manor House. They had both gone to the vicarage at Hailey Compton before the important guests arrived. Mary had to be on the spot for rehearsals of the mermaid dance. Beth found it desirable to be at the centre of activity. Both knew that there would be no room for them at the Manor House and had enough tact and good sense to go away, though Sir Evelyn invited them to stay on. Jimmy was with him still, and was really helpful. Having the sort of temperament which is unaffected by the pomposities and vanities of elderly and successful men, he remained infectiously cheerful and often saved an awkward situation by making jokes so silly that everybody, except the actress, united to snub him and felt quite friendly with each other when they had succeeded. But even Jimmy added a little to his uncle's difficulties with the party. He took the ex-Prime Minister out for a drive in the restored Pallas Athene and frightened him so much that for a whole day afterwards he was querulous and captious, the result of a severe nervous shock.

Thus it was that when the pageant was over, and two days later the last eminent guest had gone, Sir Evelyn was thoroughly tired, and glad to sit down quietly in his study. He felt a great yearning for silence and solitude. His surroundings promised him just what he wanted.

The sun shone in pleasantly through a large south window and the glare, which is the great fault of shining summer suns, was reduced by the leaves of a virginia creeper which clustered on the wall round the casement. Outside, a breeze made a gentle rustling through the branches of a glowing copper beech. The long herbaceous border was ablaze with colour, the brilliant blue of anchusas, the mauves and pinks of tall foxgloves, the white of a ribbon of low pinks, the subdued blue of violas, and the rich reds of many sweet-williams. Sir Evelyn, looking out, enjoyed a sense of mild relief—mild because he was too tired to feel anything strongly, even the delight of sunshine and the colours of the flowers.

Inside, the room was cool and staid. Gentle shadows, like the caresses of middle-aged lovers, hung over the bookshelves and the pictures on the wall. There stood, in orderly rows, all Sir Evelyn's favourite books; old memoirs bound in faded calf, tall folios rich in illustrations, rebound in purple leather and adorned with gilt impressions of the Dent coat of arms, portfolios of ancient charts, squat vellum-coloured accounts of early voyages. The pictures were those which Sir Evelyn chiefly delighted in, sea pieces, where old-fashioned ships lay in harbour with high-peaked bowsprits, tall poops and hanging sails; or plunged through crested seas while windy clouds raced across the sky.

Sir Evelyn, stretched in a deep chair, looked round at the books and pictures with mild pleasure. His was the delightful ease which follows a time of weariness. And that weariness in his case had been the result of hard work well done, toil brought to a successful end. Ease without the congratulations of a satisfied conscience loses half its delight. Sir Evelyn's conscience was in alliance with his surroundings to give him the full joy of peace. His work was done, well done, praised by all men and need never be done again. Is any state achieved by man on earth more delightful than that?

On the table beside his chair stood piles of press cuttings, four large piles. They had been taken from their green wrappers and neatly arranged by a careful servant. Sir Evelyn had not, while his guests remained with him, had time to read the accounts of the pageant; but when the judge, latest lingering of his guests, had gone, he looked forward to the pleasure of studying all the papers had to say about him. Never, even when he was Cabinet Minister, had his piles of cuttings been quite so high. But Sir Evelyn waited, like an epicure who hesitates before putting the delicious morsel into his mouth, hoping to double the pleasure by adding expectation to realisation.

While he lingered, satisfied with stillness and silence, tenderly savouring the pleasure to come, his chance of ever enjoying it was snapped from him. A servant entered the room.

"A gentleman has called who wishes to see you, sir."

"I won't see anyone to-day," said Sir Evelyn.

He had seen and talked to gentlemen of every sort and description every day and at all hours for a week. He had been photographed, interviewed, invited and pressed to do fifty troublesome things. He was determined to have no more gentlemen let loose at him.

"He's a Mr. East, sir," said the servant, "and he says his business is most important."

"Mr. East!"

Sir Evelyn was dimly aware of having heard the name before, but couldn't remember when or where.

"He asked me to mention that he is connected with the Board of Inland Revenue, sir."

"What on earth can he want with me? The entertainment tax is paid. At least I think we paid the entertainment tax. Mr. Linker undertook to look after that."

"The gentleman says his business is very urgent, sir."

"I suppose I'd better see him, though it's a nuisance. Show him in here."

Mr. East was shown in, a lean little man with a ragged brown beard. He introduced himself as a supervisor of Customs and Excise for the district. He was so nervous that his hands shook and his voice quavered.

"If there's been any misunderstanding about the entertainment tax," said Sir Evelyn, "I wish you'd see Mr. Linker about it. His shop is in High Street, and at this time of day you're sure to find him there."

Mr. East, fidgeting uncomfortably, said that the entertainment tax had been paid and that no question about it had been raised or was likely to be raised by the Inland Revenue authorities, "but——" he stuttered, and then hesitated.

The man's nervous fidgetiness exasperated Sir Evelyn, who could imagine no reason why he did not go straight to his business, whatever it was. Yet certain excuses might have been made for Mr. East. He was a minor officer in a branch of the Civil Service. Nurtured in the tradition of that great service he regarded the Parliamentary Heads of Departments as men who should be treated as the heathen, and some others, treat their gods, with reverential respect and humble worship; although—the example of the heathen and others may be cited again—their commands and expressed opinions may be and should be regarded as unimportant and generally foolish. Sir Evelyn was, or had been, such a god. Mr. East was an orthodox worshipper. It is natural for pious men to be nervous and fidgety in the presence of gods.

And Mr. East was a man who had achieved a certain amount of what is called education by means of County Council scholarships and had successfully passed the examination which admitted him to the Civil Service. He was therefore inclined to dislike and despise those for whom the winning of scholarships in early life had not been necessary and who, in spite of their expensive education could not at any time have passed a Civil Service examination. By temperament, position and achievement he was one of those Englishmen who have a thorough contempt for our aristocracy, the class to which Sir Evelyn unquestionably belonged. No one is more nervous than your thoroughgoing democrat who is determined not to be uncomfortable in the company of men like Sir Evelyn.

But there was yet another reason to account for the perspiration which was standing on Mr. East's forehead. Imagine a worshipper forced to accuse the god above his altar of a base fraud, or an independent member of the middle class who finds himself compelled to make a charge of a dishonourable kind against a man whose name, borne by a long list of ancestors, is written like an endorsement across page after page of English history.

That was the unfortunate position of Mr. East.

He had that morning received from London by registered post from the permanent head of his department, instructions to visit Sir Evelyn, to see him personally, to inform him that His Majesty's Department of Customs and Excise was fully aware that smuggling on a large scale had been carried on under cover of the Hailey Compton pageant.

Mr. East had gasped when he read that letter. It gave details, so many gallons of French brandy and wine, a very large quantity. So many hundred yards of silk, the real product of the industry of the foreign worm. The fraud was as shameless as it was immense; and there was no doubt whatever about the facts. Mr. East, who knew his business and the ways of his department, understood exactly how this information had been received and how it came that the department was so sure of its facts. Notice is always sent by agents, whose business it is to watch such things, of any considerable shipment of contraband goods from a Continental port. The ship which carries them is known. The men to whom they are consigned in England are marked.

All this Mr. East had to tell, and in the end did tell to Sir Evelyn. He was nervous and miserable, but he was a man possessed by that spirit which forces the best of us to do desperately unpleasant duties. He did his.

Sir Evelyn's conscience was perfectly clear. He was annoyed that such an absurd and tiresome mistake should have been made; but he had not the slightest doubt that it was a mistake. He said so with the confidence of an accused man who knows that he is innocent.

Mr. East, more nervous than ever, but still determined to do his duty, went on:

"I'm instructed to say, sir, that the department is unwilling to allow the law to take its course in the case of a man——" Here he corrected himself and said "gentleman, in your position. If you will make a frank statement of the amount of contraband goods imported, and will at once pay the full duty applicable to such goods no further proceedings will be taken. You will understand, sir"—Mr. East nearly choked while saying this—"that this leniency is only extended to you in order to avoid what might well be a most disagreeable scandal."

Here, it is regrettable to have to relate it, Sir Evelyn lost his temper. Being perfectly innocent of any attempt to defraud, or intention of making an attempt to defraud anyone, he was very naturally indignant. He suggested in tones of icy dignity that Mr. East should leave the room and communicate with him further—if further communication was necessary—through a firm of solicitors.

"I am also instructed, sir," said Mr. East, "to say that no steps will be taken before to-morrow morning. The department, though unable to condone or overlook the fraud, is willing to give you time to consider their proposal and your position."

This was more than Sir Evelyn could stand. He stood up and rang the bell.

"I shall direct my servant," he said, "to show you out and not to admit you into my house again."

Mr. East, by this time sweating at every pore and tingling with acute discomfort, bowed and turned towards the door.

"I ought to add," he said as he went out, "that no attempt to remove the dutiable goods from the cave in which we believe them to be stored will be permitted. To-morrow at noon, unless you have complied with the terms of the department's proposal, our officers will enter the cave and seize the goods."

"Your officers," said Sir Evelyn, goaded to extreme exasperation, "may search the cave as much as they damned well choose. They'll find nothing there."