Mud caked
his coat, its fur: apparently he had been rolling in mud. But the
worst was that he wept.
He wept copiously. Was it the late Mr. Gladstone who invented the
phrase "Reformation in a Flood"? Anyhow, it kept crossing and
re-crossing my mind absurdly as I surveyed this wreck that had called
itself Martin Luther. All the wine in him had turned to tears of
repentance, and he was pretty nauseous. I told him to stand up.
"This--er--gentleman," said I to the police-sergeant, "is called
Farrell--Mr. Peter Farrell. He lives," I said, as the address at the
foot of the _Times_ letter came to my memory, "at The Acacias,
Wimbledon."
The sergeant nodded slowly. "That's right, sir. I knew him well
enough. Attended a meeting of his only last Saturday--on duty,
that's to say."
We smiled. "He's not precisely a friend of mine," said I. "But we
have met in public life, and I'll be answerable for him. We must get
him out of this."
"There's no difficulty, sir, since we have the address. There was no
card or letter in his pocket, and he said he came from Wittenberg
through the Gates of Hell.
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