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‘Your monument?’ I echoed.

He nodded again. ‘In good time, my friend, you shall hear about it; for you make, I perceive, a good listener. You have gifts, though you do less than justice to them. Suffice it to say that I am a sentimentalist, like yourself. I never married nor begat children; and I have but a shaky belief in the future state; but my sentimentality hankers after–you may even say it postulates–some kind of continuity. I cannot discuss this here and now, for by the sound of the violins, the dance is coming to an end, and my guests will be growing impatient. But you remember Samson’s riddle? Well, out of my corpse (I trust) shall come forth honey: whereas out of yours, unless you employ your talents better–‘ He broke off, and stepped close up to me. ‘Ah, but excuse me,’ he said, and reaching out a hand, caught me suddenly by the collar.

The arrest–I made sure it was an arrest–took me unprepared, and threw me off my balance. I broke away a pace, drawing back my fist to strike: and in that moment I felt his hand relax with a curious fluttering movement as though his fingers drummed on the back of my neck. I heard him laugh too: and before I could hit out he sprang back, holding in his hand a white rabbit!

‘An old trick–eh?–and a simple one.’ He pressed out the spring of his opera hat, dropped the rabbit inside, dived his hand after it, and drew out two white rabbits by the ears. ‘But it will amuse my young friends downstairs, and I practise this kind of thing at odd whiles.’

He set the rabbits on the floor, where they gave themselves a shake, and hopped off towards the shelter of the window-curtains.

‘Now you are the very man I wanted,’ said he, ‘and I am going to make you sing for your supper.’ He stepped to the armoire, and drew out a long cloak of scarlet, furred with ermine. ‘I had meant to wear this myself,’ he went on; but stopped all of a sudden at sight of my face, and began to laugh quietly, in a way that made me long to take him by the throat. ‘Dear me, dear me! I understand! Association of ideas–Court of Assize, eh? But this is no judicial robe, my friend: it belongs to Father Christmas. Here’s his wig now–quite another sort of wig, you perceive–with a holly wreath around it. And here’s his beard, beautifully frosted with silver.’ He held wig and beard towards the window, and let the moonlight play over them. ‘On with them, quick! . . . And the boots.’ Again he dived into the armoire, and produced a pair of Bluchers, the long ankle leathers gummed over with cotton-wool, to represent snow. ‘It’s lucky they reach a good way up the leg, seeing the cloak is a trifle short for a man of your inches.’ He stepped back a pace and surveyed me as I fitted on the beard.

‘There are punishments and punishments,’ said I. ‘And I hope, whatever your game may be, you will remember that there’s punishment in dressing up like a tom-fool.’

‘Ah, but you’ll catch the spirit of it!’ he assured me: and then, rubbing his hands, he appeared to muse for a moment. ‘I ought,’ said he, with a glance towards the fireplace, ‘I really ought to send Father Christmas down by way of the chimney. The flue opens just above here, and I believe it would accommodate you; but I am not very sure if my housekeeper had it swept last spring. No,’ he decided, ‘the music has ceased, and we must lose no time. I will spare you the chimney.’