13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

The taxi ride to his destination seemed interminable, and when he got there he was in such a state of expectant rap­ture that he flung the driver a pound note and scurried up the steps without waiting for change. The house was one of those unwieldly Victorian edifices with which the west of London is encumbered against all hopes of modern develop­ment; and in the dim street lighting he did not notice that all the windows were barred, nor would he have been likely to speculate upon the reasons for that peculiar feature if he had noticed it.

The door was opened by a white-coated man, and Mr. Oates almost bowled him over as he dashed past him into the hall.

"I want Dr. Jethero," he bayed. "I'm Titus Oates!"

The man closed the door and looked at him curiously.

"Mr. Titus Oates, sir?"

"Yes!" roared the financier impatiently. "Titus Oates. Tell him I was whipped from Aldgate to Newgate, and from Newgate to Tyburn. And hurry up!"

The man nodded perfunctorily, and edged past him at a cautious distance of which Mr. Oates was too wrought up to see the implications.

"Yes, sir. Will you wait in here a moment, sir?"

Mr. Oates was ushered into a barely furnished distempered room and left there. With an effort he fussed himself down to a superficial calm—he was Titus Oates, a power in the City, and he must conduct himself accordingly. Dr. Jethero might misunderstand a blundering excitement. If he was crotchety, and perhaps even potty, he must be handled with tact. Mr. Oates strode up and down the room, working off his overflow of excitement. There was a faint characteristic flavour of iodoform in the air, but Mr. Oates did not even notice that.

Footsteps sounded along the hall, and the door opened again. This time it admitted a grey-bearded man who also wore a white coat. His keen spectacled eyes examined the financier calmly. Mr. Oates mustered all his self-control.

"I am Titus Oates," he said with simple dignity.

The grey-bearded man nodded.

"You wanted to see me?" he said; and Mr. Oates recalled his instructions again.

"Titus Oates," he repeated gravely. "I was whipped from Aldgate to Newgate, and from Newgate to Tyburn."

Dr. Jethero studied him for a moment longer, and glanced towards the door, where the white-coated attendant was wait­ing unobtrusively—Mr. Oates had not 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?"