CHAPTER XVI. A WILD SURPRISE. At five o'clock that day the transference of the property was made out and signed by Marcus Mulhausen in Mortimer Collins's office, and the Glendorf when lands became again the property of the Earl of Rochester. For the sum of five thousand pounds received, and herewith acknowledged, said the document. Needless to say, no five thousand pounds passed hands. Collins, mystified, asked no questions in the presence of Mulhausen. When the latter had taken his departure, however, he turned to Jones. Did you pay him five thousand? asked the lawyer. Not a cent, replied the other. Well, how have you worked the miracle then? Jones told. You see how I had them cupred, finished he. Well, just as I was going to grab the kitty he played the ace of spades, produced an old document he held against me. Yes. I pondered for a moment, then I came to a swift conclusion, took the dock from him and ate it. You ate the document? Sure. Jones rubbed his stomach and laughed. Well, well, said the solicitor with curious acquiescence and want of astonishment after the first momentary start caused by this surprising statement. We have the property back, that's the main thing. You remember, said Jones, I talked to you about letting that place. Carlton House Terrace? Yes. Well, that's off. I've made good. Do you see? Hmm, yes, replied Collins. I'll have enough money now to pay off the mortgages and things. Undoubtedly, said Collins. But now don't you think it would be a good thing if you were to tie this property up so that mischants can't touch it? You have no children, it is true, but one never knows. Honestly, I think you would be well advised if you were to take precautions. Don't worry, said Jones brightly. I'll give the whole lot to my wife when I can come to terms with her. That's good hearing, replied the other. Then Jones took his departure, leaving the precious documents in the hands of the lawyer. He was elated. He had proved the facts which he had not only guessed by instinct up to this, that a rogue is the weakest person in the world before a plane-dealer, if the plane-dealer has a weapon in his hand. The almost instantaneous collapse of voles and molehousing was due to the fact that they stood on rotten foundations. He told himself now, as he walked along homeward, that he need not have eaten that document. Molehousing would never have used it. If he had just gone out and called in a policeman, molehousing, seeing him in earnest, would have collapsed. However, the thing was eaten and done with, and there was no use in troubling any more in the matter. He had other things to think of. He had made good. He had saved the Rochester name and estate. He had recaptured one million, eight thousand pounds, reckoning that the coal-bearing lands were worth a million, and more than that. He was a sane man, able to look after what he had recaptured. The Rochester family, if they knew, would have no cause to grumble at the interloper and the substitution of new brains and push in the place of decadence, craziness, and sloth. The day when he had changed places with Rochester was the best day that had ever dawned for them. He was thinking this when, all of a sudden, that horrible, unreal feeling he had suffered from once before came upon him again. This time it was not a question of losing his identity. It was a shuffle of his own taxed brain between two identities. ROCHESTER JONES JONES ROCHESTER It seemed to him, for the space of a couple of seconds, that he could not tell which of those two individuals he was. Then the feeling passed and he resumed his way, reaching Carleton House Terrace shortly after six. He gave his hat and cane and gloves to the flunky who opened the door for him. He had obtained a latch-key from church that morning but forgot to use it, and was crossing the hall when a strain of music brought him to a halt. The tones of a piano came from a door on the right. Someone was playing Chaminade's Volstin and playing it to perfection. JONES turned to the man-servant. "'Who is that?' he asked. "'It is her ladyship, my lord. She arrived half an hour ago. Her luggage has gone upstairs.' "'Her ladyship?' JONES thrown off his balance, hesitated for a moment. What ladyship could it be? Not surely that awful mother.' He crossed to the door, opened it, found a music-room, and there, seated at a piano, the girl of the Victoria. She was in outdoor dress and had not removed her hat. She looked over her shoulder at him as he came in. Her face wore a half-smile, but she did not stop playing. Anything more fascinating, more lovely, more distracting than that picture it would be hard to imagine. As he crossed the room, she suddenly ceased playing and twirled round on the music stool. "'I've come back,' said she. "'Juju, I couldn't stand it.  I'm going to try to put up with you a bit longer. Juju, what makes you look so stiff and funny?' "'I don't know,' said Jones, passing his hand across his forehead. "'I've had a hard day.' She looked at him curiously for a moment, then pittingly, then kindly. Then she jumped up, made him sit down on a big couch by the wall, and took her seat beside him. Then she took his hand. "'Juju, why will you be such a fool?' "'I don't know,' said Jones. The caress of the little jeweled hand destroyed his mental powers. He dared not look at her, just sat staring before him. "'They told me all about the coal mine,' she went on. "'At least Venetia did, and how they all bully-ragged you. Venetia was great on that. Venetia waggled that awful gobbly dickhead of hers while she was telling me. They're mad over the loss of that coal thing. Oh, Juju, I'm so glad you lost it. It's wicked, I suppose, but I'm glad. That's what made me come back, the way they went on about you. I listened and listened, and then I broke out. I said all I've wanted to say for the last six months to Venetia. You know she told me how you came home the other night. I said nothing then, just listened and stored it up. Then last night, when they all got together about the coal mine, I went on listening and storing it up.   Then I broke out. I said a whole lot of things. Well, there it is. So I came back. There were other reasons as well. I don't want to be alone. I want to be cared for. I want to be cared for. When I saw you in Bond Street yesterday, I—I— Juju, do you care for me? Yes, said Jones. I want to confess. I want to tell you something. Yes. If you didn't care for me, if I felt you didn't, I'd—yes. Kick right over the traces. I would. I couldn't go on as I have been going, lonely, like a lost dog. She raised his fingers and rubbed them along her lips. You will not be lonely, said the unfortunate man, in a muted voice. You need not be afraid of that. The utter inadequacy of the remark came to him like one of those nightmare recognitions encountered as a rule only in dreamland. Yet she seemed to find it sufficient, her mind perhaps being engaged elsewhere. What would you have said if I had run away from you for good? asked she. Would you have been sorry? Yes, dreadfully.  I am. Honestly glad? Yes. Really glad? Yes. Truthfully, really, honestly glad? Yes. Well, so am I, said she. She released his hand.  I want something soothing after Venetia. Play me Chopin's Biennato. We used to be fond of that. Now the only thing that Jones had ever played in his life was the star-spangled banner, and that with one finger. Chopin's Biennato? No, he said. I'd rather talk. Well, talk then. Mercy, there's the first gong. A faint and far away sound invaded the room, throbbed and ceased. She rose, picked up her gloves, which she had cast on a chair, and then peeped at herself in a mirror by the piano. You have never kissed me, said she, speaking as it were half to herself and half to him, seeming to be more engaged in a momentary piercing criticism of the hat she was wearing than in thoughts of kisses. He came towards her like a schoolboy.  Then the most delightful thing that had ever happened to mortal man happened to him. Two warm palms suddenly took his face between them, and two moist lips met his own. Then she was gone. He took his seat on the music stool, dazed, dazzled, delighted, shocked, frightened, triumphant. The position was terrific. Jones was no lethario. He was a straight, plain, commonsensical man with a high respect for women. And the position of leading character in a bad French comedy was not for him.  To personate another man and to kiss the other man's wife under that disguise would have seemed to him the meanest act any two-legged creature could perform. And he had just done it.  She had done it because of his deception. He found himself suddenly face to face with the barrier that fate had been cunningly constructing and had now placed straight before him. There was no getting over it or under it. He would have to declare his position at once. And what a position to declare. She loved Rochester. All at once that terrific fact appeared before him in its true proportions and its true meaning. She loved Rochester. He had to tell her the truth. Yet to tell her the truth he would have to tell her that the man she loved was dead. Then she would want proofs. He would have to bring up the Savoy Hotel people, fetch folk from America, disinter Rochester. Horror! He had never thought of that. What had become of Rochester? Up to this he had never thought once of what had become of the mortal remains of the defunct Jester, nor had he cared a button. Why should he? But the woman who loved Rochester would care.  He felt a tinge of that feeling towards himself now. Up to this Rochester had been, for him, a mechanical figure, an abstraction. But the fact of this woman's love had suddenly converted the abstraction into a human being. He could not possibly tell her that he had left the remains of this human being, this man she loved, in the hands of unknown strangers, callously, as though it were the remains of an animal. He could tell her nothing. The game was up. He would have to quit. Either that, or to continue the masquerade, which was impossible. Or to tell her all, which was equally impossible. Yet to quit would be to hit her cruelly. She loved Rochester. Rochester, despite all his wickedness, frivolity, shiflessness, and general unworthiness, or perhaps because of these things, had been able to make this woman love him, take his part against his family, and return to him. To go away and leave her now would be the cruelest act. Cruel to her, and just as cruel to himself, fascinated and held by her as he was. Yet there was no other course open to him. So he told himself, so he tried to tell himself, knowing full well that the only course open to him, as a man of honour, was a full confession of the facts of the case. To sneak away would be the act of a coward. To impose himself on her as Rochester, the act of a villain. To tell her the truth, the act of a man. The result would be terrific, yet only by facing that result could he come clear out of this business. For half an hour he sat, scarcely moving. He was up against that most insuperable obstacle, his own character. Had he been a crook, everything would have been easy. Being a fairly straight man, everything was impossible. He had got to this bedrock fact when the door opened, and a servant made his appearance. Dinner is served, my lord. Dinner! He rose up and came into the hall. Standing there for a moment, undecided, he heard a laugh and looked up. She was standing in the evening dress, looking over the balustrade of the first landing. Why, you are not dressed, she said. I—I forgot, he answered. Something fell at his feet. It was a rose. She had cast it to him, and now she was coming down the stairway towards him, where he stood, the rose in his hand, and distraction at his heart. It is perfectly disgraceful of you, said she, looking him up and down and taking the rose from him. And there is no time to dress now. You use him to be as careless as that. She put the rose in his coat. I suppose it's from living alone for a fortnight with Venetia. What would a month have done? She pressed the rose flat with her little palm. Then she slipped her fingers through the crook of his elbow and led him to the breakfast-room door. She entered, and he followed her. The breakfast table had been reduced in size, and they dined facing one another across a bowl of blush-roses. That dinner was not a conversational success on the part of Jones, a fact which she scarcely perceived, being in high spirits and full of information she was eager to impart. It did not seem to matter to her in the least whether the flunkies and waiting were listening or not. She talked of the family, of your mater, and blunders, and V, and other people, touching, it seemed, on the most intimate matters and all with a lightness of tone and spirit that would have been delightful, no doubt, had he known the discussed ones more intimately, and had his mind been open to receive pleasurable impressions. He would have to tell her directly after dinner the whole of his terrible story. It was as though fate were saying to him, You will have to kill her directly after dinner. All that light-hearted chatter and newfound contentment, all that brightness would die. Grief for the man she loved, hatred of the man who had supplanted him. Anguish, perplexity, terror would take their places. When the terrible meal was over, she ordered coffee to be served in the music room. He lingered behind for a moment, fiddling with a cigarette. Then, when he came into the hall with the sweat standing in beads upon his forehead, he heard the notes of the piano. It was a Mazurka of Chopin's, played with gaiety and brilliancy, yet no funeral march ever sounded more fatefully in the ears of mortal. He could not do it. Then he turned the handle of the music-room door and entered.  In the rosy light and half-shadows, the room looked larger than when seen in daylight, and different. She had wandered from the Mazurka into Paterouski's Melody, Op. 8, No. 3, a lonesome sort of tune it seemed to him, as he dropped into a chair, crossed his legs, and listened. Then, as he listened, he began to think. Up to this, his thoughts had been in confusion, chasing one another, or pursued by the monstrosity of the situation. Now he was thinking clearly. She was his. That girl sitting there at the piano with the light upon her hair, the light upon her bare shoulders and the sheeny fabric of her dress. He had only to stretch out his hand and take her. Absolutely his, and he had only met her twice. She was the most beautiful woman in London.  And she loved him. The Arabian knights contained nothing like this, nor had the brain that conceived tantalus risen to the heights achieved by accident and coincidence. She finished the piece, rose, turned over some sheets of music, and then came across the room, floated across the room, and took her perch on the arm of the great chair in which he was sitting. Then he felt her fingers on his hair. I want to feel your bumps to see if you have improved. Juju, your head isn't so flat as it used to be on top. It seems a different shape somehow, nicer. Blunders is as flat as a pancake on top of his head. Flatness runs in families, I suppose. Look at Venetia's feet. Juju, have you ever seen her in felt-bath slippers? No. I have, and a long yellow dressing gown, and her hair on her shoulders all wet in rat tails. I'm not a cat, but she makes me feel like one and talk like one. I want to forget her. Do you remember our honeymoon? Yes. She had taken his hand and was holding it. We were happy, then. Let's begin again, and let this be our second honeymoon, and we won't quarrel once, will we? No, we won't, said Jones. She slipped down into the chair beside him, pulled his arm around her, and held up her lips.  You seemed to have frightened before. Juju, I want to make a confession. Yes? Well, somebody pretended to care for me very much a little while ago. Who was that? Never mind. I went last night to a dance at the Crawleys, and he was there. Yes? Yes. Is that all you have to say? You don't seem to be very much interested. I am, though. I don't want you to be too much interested and go making scenes and all that, though you couldn't, for you don't know his name. Suffice to tell you, as the books say, he is a very handsome man, much, much handsomer than you, Juju. Well, listen to me. He asked me to run off with him. Run off with him? Yes, to Spain. We were to go to Paris first, and then to Spain. Spain, at this time of year. What did you say?  I'd been reading a novel where a girl said that to a man who wanted to run off with her. She died at the end. But that's what she said at first. Fortunate I remembered it. Why? Because, because for a moment I felt inclined to say yes. I know it was dreadful, but think of my position, you going on like that, and me all alone with no one to care for me. It's like a crave for drink. I must have someone to care for me, and I thought you didn't. So I nearly said yes. Once I had said what I did, I felt stronger. What did he say? He pleaded passionately, like the man in the book, and talked of roses and blue seas. He's not English. I sat thinking of Venetia in her felt-bathroom slippers and yellow wrapper. You know she reads St. Thomas a campus and opens bazaars. She opened one the other day and came back with her nose quite red and in a horrid temper. I wonder what was inside that bazaar. Well, I knew if I did anything foolish Venetia would exult, and that held me firm. She's not wicked. I believe she is really good as far as she knows how, and that's the terrible thing about her. She goes to church twice on Sunday. She takes puddings and things to old women in the country. She opens bazaars and subscribes to ragged schools. Yet with one word she sets everyone by the ears. Well, when I got home from the dance I began to think, and today, when they were all out, I had my boxes packed and came right back here. I'd have given anything to see their faces when they got home and found me gone. She sprang up suddenly. A knock had come to the door. It opened and a servant announced Miss Birdbrook. Venetia had not changed that evening.  She ignored Jones and standing spoke tersely to Teresa. So you've left us? Yes, replied the other. I have come back here. Do you mind? I, said Venetia, it's not a question of my minding in the least, only it was sudden, and as you left no word as to where you were going we thought it best to make sure you were all right. She took her seat uncomfortably on a chair, and the Countess of Rochester perched herself again by Jones. Yes, I am all right, said she, with her hand resting on his shoulder. Venetia gulped. I am glad to know it, she said. We tried to make you comfortable. I cannot deny that Mother feels slightly hurt at having no word from you before leaving, and one must admit that it cannot but seem strange to the servants you're going like that. But of course that is entirely a question of taste. You mean, said Teresa, that it was bad taste on my part. Well, I apologize. I am sorry, but the sudden craving to get back here was more than I could resist. I would have written to-night. Oh, it does not matter, said Venetia. The thing is done. Well, I must be going. But have you both thought over the future, and all that it implies? Have we, Juju? asked the girl, caressingly stroking Jones' head. Yes, said Jones. I am sure, went on Venetia with a sigh. I have always done my best to keep things together. I failed. Was it my fault? No, said Teresa, aching for her to be gone. I am sure it was not. I am glad to hear you say that. I always tried to avoid interfering in your life. I never did, or only when ordinary prudence made me speak, as for instance in that backer-at-business. Don't rake up old things, said Teresa, suddenly. And the Williamson affair got in Venetia. Oh, I am the very last to rake up things, as you call it. I, for one, will say no more of things that have happened, but I must speak of things that affect myself. What is affecting you? Just this. You know quite well the financial position. You know what the upkeep of this house means. You can't do it. You plainly can't do it. Your income is not sufficient. But how does that affect you? When tradespeople talk, it affects me. It affects us all. Why not let this house and live quietly, somewhere in the country, till things blow over? What do you mean by things blowing over? asked Teresa. One would think that you were talking of some disgrace that had happened. Venetia pulled up her long left-hand glove, and moved as though about to depart. She said nothing but looked at her glove. During the whole of this time she had neither looked at nor spoken to Jones, nor included him by word in the conversation. Her influence had been working upon him ever since she entered the room. He began now more fully to understand the part she had played in the life of Rochester. He felt that he wanted to talk to Venetia as Rochester had probably never talked. A man once said to me that the greatest mistake a fellow can make is to have a sister to live with him after his marriage, said Jones. Venetia pulled up her right-hand glove. A sister that has had to face mad intoxication and worse can endorse that opinion, said she. What do you mean by worse? fired Teresa. I mean exactly what I say, replied Venetia. That is no answer. Do you mean that Arthur has been unfaithful to me? I did not say that. Well, what can be worse than intoxication? That is the only thing worse that I know of, unless murder. Do you mean that he has murdered someone? I will not let you drag me into a quarrel, said Venetia. You are putting things into my mouth. I think mad extravagance is worse than intoxication, in as much as it is committed by reasonable people, uninfluenced by drugs or alcohol. I think insults leveled at inoffensive people are worse than the wildest deeds committed under the influence of that demon alcohol. Who are the inoffensive people who have been insulted? Good gracious! Well, of course, you don't know. You have not had to interview people. What people? Sir Playdell Harcourt, for instance, who had sixteen pianos sent to him only last week, to say nothing of Pentechnicon vans and half the contents of Harrods and Whitelies, so that Arlington Street was blocked, simply blocked, the whole of last Friday. Did he say Arthur had sent them? He had no direct proof, but he knew there was no other man in London who would have done such a thing. Did you send them, Ju-Ju? No, said Jones. I did not. Venetia rose. You admitted to me yourself that you did, said she. I was only joking, he replied. Teresa went to the bell and rang it. Good night, said Venetia. After that I have nothing more to say. Thank goodness! murmured Teresa when she was gone. She made me shiver with her talk about extravagance. I've been horribly extravagant the last week. When a woman is distracted she runs to clothes for relief. Anyhow, I did. I've got three new evening frocks and I want to show you them. I've never known your taste wrong. Good, said Jones. I'd like to see them. Guess what they cost? Can't. Two hundred and fifty, and they are a bargain. You're not shocked, are you? Not a bit. Well, come and look at them. What's the time? Half past ten. She led the way upstairs. On the first landing she turned to the left, opened a door and disclosed a bedroom where a maid was moving about arranging things and unpacking boxes. A large cardboard box lay open on the floor. It was filled with snow-white lingerie. The instinct of bolt came upon Jones so strongly that he might have obeyed it, only for the hand upon his arm pressing him down into a chair. Anne, said the Countess of Rochester, bring out my new evening gowns. I want to show them. Then she turned to the cardboard box. Here's some more of my extravagance. I couldn't resist them. Venetian nearly had a fit when she saw the bill. Look! She exhibited frilled and snow-white things, delicate and diaphanous, and fit to be worn by angels. Then the dresses arrived and were laid out on the bed and inspected.  If Jones had been asked to price them, he would have said a hundred dollars. Like most men, he was absolutely unconscious of the worth of a woman's dress. To a woman, a Purdy and a Ten-Ginny Birmingham gun are just the same. And to a man, a Ten-Ginny-Basewater's dress is little different, if worn by a Purdy girl, from a Seventy-Ginny Bond Street. Is it Bond Street? Rig out. Unless he is a man milliner. Jones said, Beautiful! Gave the palm to the blue and watched them carried off again by the maid. He had left his cigarettes downstairs. There were some in a box on a table. She made him take one and lit it for him. Then she disappeared into a room adjoining, returning in a few minutes, dressed in a kimono covered with golden swallows, and followed by the maid. Then she took her seat before a great mirror, and the maid began to take down her hair and brush it. As the brushing went on, she talked to the maid and to Jones upon all sorts of subjects, to the maid about the condition of her, Teresa's, hair, and a new fashion and hairdressing, to Jones about the opera, the stoutness of Caruso, and kindred matters. The hair having been arranged in one great gorgeous plate, Jones suddenly breaking free from a weird sort of hypnotism that had held him since first entering the room, rose to his feet. I'll be back in a minute, said he. He crossed the room, reached the door, opened it, and passed out, closing the door.  Then he came down the stairs, crossed the hall, seized a hat and overcoat, put them on, and opened the hall door. All the way down the stairs and across the hall, he felt as though he were being driven along by some viewless force. And now, standing at the door, that same force pushed him out of the house and onto the steps. He closed the door, came down the steps, and turned to the right. End of Chapter 17. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 18 of The Man Who Lost Himself. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. The Man Who Lost Himself by H. Devere Stackpole. Chapter 18. The Mental Trap. It was a beautiful night, warm and starlit, the waning moon had just begun to rise in the east. And as he turned into the green park, a breath of tepid wind, grass scented and balmy, blew in his face. He walked in the direction of Buckingham Palace. Where was he to go? He had no ideas, no plans. He had failed in performing the duty that fate had arranged for him to perform. He had failed, but not through cowardice, or at least not through fear of consequences to himself. The man who refuses to cut a lamb's throat, even though duty calls him to the act, has many things to be said for him. His distracted mind was not dealing with this matter, however. What held him entirely was the thought of her waiting for him, and how she would feel when she found he had deserted her. He had acted like a brute, and she would hate him accordingly. Not him, but Rochester. It was the same thing, the old story. Hatred, obliquely, disdain leveled against Rochester affected him as though it were leveled against himself. He could not take refuge in his own personality. Even on the first day of his new life he had found that out at the club. Since then, the struggle to maintain his position and the battles he had fought had steadily weakened his mental position as Jones, strengthened his position as Rochester. The strange psychological fact was becoming plain, though not to him, that the jealousy he ought to have felt on account of this woman's love for Rochester was not there. This woman had fascinated him, as women had perhaps never fascinated a man before. She had kissed him, she loved him. And though his reason told him quite plainly that he was Victor Jones, and that she loved and had kissed another man, his heart did not resent that fact. Rochester was dead. It seemed to him that Rochester had never lived. He left the park and came along Night's Bridge, still thinking of her sitting there waiting for him. His mind straying from that to the kiss, the dinner, the bowl of roses that stood between them, her voice. Then all at once these considerations vanished, all at once, and like an extinguisher, fell on him that awful sensation of negation. His mind, pulled this way and that between contending forces, became a blank written across with letters of fire, forming the question, Who am I? The acutest physical suffering could not have been worse than that torture of the overtaxed brain, that feeling that if he did not clutch it himself he would become nothing. He ran for a few yards. Then it passed and he found himself beneath a lamp-post, recovering and muttering his own name rapidly to himself like a charm to exercise evil. Jones! Jones! Jones! He looked around. There were not many people to be seen, but a man and woman a few yards away were standing and looking at him. They had evidently stopped and turned to see what he was about, and they went on when they saw him observing them. They must have thought him mad. The hot shame of the idea was a better stimulant than Brandy. He walked on. He was no longer thinking of the woman he had just left, he was thinking of himself. He had been false to himself. The greatest possession any man can have in the world is himself. Some men let that priceless property depreciate, some improve it. It is given to few men to tamper with it after the fashion of Jones. He saw this now, and just as though a pit had opened before him he drew back. He must stop this double life at once and become his own self in reality. Failing to do that he would meet madness. He recognized this. No man's brain could stand what he had been going through for long. Had he been left to himself he might have adapted his mind gradually to the perpetual shifting from Jones to Rochester and vice versa. The woman had brought things to a crisis. The horror that had now suddenly fallen on him, the horror of the return of that awful feeling of negation, the horror of losing himself, cast all other considerations from his mind. He must stop this business at once. He would go away, return straight to America. That was easy to be done, but would that save him? Would that free him from this horrible clinging personality that he had so lightly cast around himself? Nothing is stranger than mind. From the depth of his mind came the whisper, No. Intuition told him that were he to go to Timbuktu Rochester would cling to him, that he would wake up from sleep fancying himself Rochester, and then that feeling would return. What he required was the recognition by other people that he was himself, Jones, that the whole of this business was a deception, a stage play in real life. Their abuse, their threats would not matter. Their blows would be welcome, so he thought. Anything that would hit him back firmly into his real position in the scheme of things and save him from the dread of some day losing himself. After a while the exercise and night air calmed his mind. He had come to the great decision. A decision immutable now, since it had to do with the very core of his being. He would tell her everything. Tomorrow morning he would confess all. Her fascination upon him had loosened its hold. The terror had done that. He no longer loved her. Had he ever loved her? That was an open question, or in other words, a question no man could answer. He only knew now that he did not crave for her regard, only for her recognition of himself as Jones. She was the door out of this mental trap into which his mind had blundered. These considerations had carried him far into a region of mean streets and suburban houses. It was long after twelve o'clock, and he fell to thinking what he should do with himself for the rest of the night. It was impossible to walk about till morning, and he determined to return to Carleton House Terrace, let himself in with his latch-key, and slip upstairs to his room. If by any chance she had not retired for the night, and he chanced to meet her on the stairs or in the hall, then the confession must be made forthwith. It was after two o'clock when he reached the house. He opened the door with his key and, closing it softly, crossed the hall and went up the stairs. One of the hall lamps had been left burning evidently for him. A lamp was burning also in the corridor. He switched on the electric light in his room and closed the door. Then he heaved a sigh of relief, undressed, and got into bed. All across the hall, up the stairs and along the corridor, he had been followed by the dread of meeting her and having to enter on that terrible explanation right away. The craving to tell her all had been supplanted for the moment by the dread of the act. In the morning it would be different. He would be rested and have more command over himself, so he fancied. End of CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIX OF THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF by H. DeVere Stackpool CHAPTER XIX ESCAPE CLOSED He was awakened by Mr. Church, one has always to give him the prefix, pulling up the blinds. His first thought was of the task before him. The mind does a lot of quiet business of its own when the blinds are down and the body is asleep, and during the night his mind, working in darkness, had cleared up matters, countered and cut off all sorts of fears and objections and drawn up a definite plan. He would tell her everything that morning. If she would not take his word for the facts, then he would have a meeting of the whole family. He felt absolutely certain that explaining things bit by bit and detail by detail he could convince them of the death of Rochester and his own existence as Jones. Absolutely certain that they would not push matters to the point of publicity. He held a trump card in the property he had recovered from Mulhausen, were he to be exposed publicly as an impostor, all about the Plin Lyman letters. Voles and Mulhausen would come out. Mulhausen, that very astute practitioner, would not be long in declaring that he had been forced to return the title deeds to protect his daughter's name. Voles would swear anything, and their case would stand good on the proved fact that he, Jones, was a swindler. No, assuredly the family would not press the matter to publicity. Having drunk his tea he arose, bathed, and dressed with a calm mind. Then he came downstairs. She was not in the breakfast-room, where only one place was laid, and concluding that she was breakfasting in her own room he sat down to table. After the meal and with another sheaf of the infernal early post-letters in his hand he crossed to the smoking-room where he closed the door, put the letters on the table, and lit a cigar. Then, having smoked for a few minutes and collected his thoughts, he rang the bell and sent for Mr. Church. Church, said he when that functionary arrived, will you tell my wife I want to see her? Her ladyship left last night, your lordship. She left at ten o'clock, or a little after. Left? Where did she go to? She went to the South Kensington Hotel, your lordship. Good heavens! What made her—why did she go? Ah, was it because I did not come back? I think it was, your lordship. Mr. Church spoke gravely and the least bit stiffly. It could easily be seen that as an old servant and faithful retainer he was on the woman's side of the business. I had to go out, said the other. I will explain it to her when I see her. It was on a matter of importance. Thanks, that will do, Church. Alone again he finished his cigar. The awful fear of the night before, the fear of negation and the loss of himself, had vanished with the brain refreshed by sleep and before this fact. What a brute he had been! She had come back for giving him, for who knows what. She had taken his part against his traducers, kissed him. She had fancied that all was right and that happiness had returned, and he had coldly discarded her. It would have been less cruel to have beaten her. She was a good, sweet woman. He knew that fact now, both instinctively and by knowledge. He had not known it fully till this minute. Would it, after all, have been better to have deceived her and to have played the part of Rochester? That question occurred to him for a moment to be at once flung away. It was not so much personal antagonism to such a course, nor the dread of madness owing to his double life that cast it out so violently, but the recognition of the goodness and lovableness of the woman. Leaving everything else aside to carry on such a deception with her, even to think of it was impossible. More than ever was he determined to clear this thing up and tell her all, and to his honour, be it said, his main motive now was to do his best by her. He finished his cigar, and then, going into the hall, obtained his hat and left the house. He did not know where the South Kensington Hotel might be, but a tax he solved that question, and shortly before ten o'clock he reached his destination. Yes, Lady Rochester had arrived last night and was staying in the hotel, and whilst the girl in the manager's office was sending up his name and asking for an interview, Jones took his seat in the lounge.  He opened it. Never again. This is good-bye. Tea. That was the answer. He sat with the sheet of paper in his hand, contemplating the shape and make of an armchair of wicker work opposite him. What was he to do? He had received just the answer he might have expected, neither more nor less. It was impossible for him to force an interview with her. He had overthrown voles, climbed over Mulhausen, but the flight of stairs dividing him now from the private suite of the Countess of Rochester was an obstacle not to be overcome by courage or direct methods, and he knew of no indirect method. He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he left the hotel and took his way back to Carleton House Terrace. If she would not see him, she could not refuse to read a letter. He would write to her and explain all. He would write in detail, giving the whole business circumstance by circumstance. It would take him a long while. He guessed that, and ordinary note-paper would not do. He had seen a stack of manuscript paper, however, in one of the drawers of the bureau, and having shut the door and lit a cigarette, he took some of the sheets of long foolscap, ruled thirty-four lines to the page, and sat down to the business. This is what he said. Lady Rochester, I want you to read what follows carefully and not to form any opinion on the matter till all the details are before you. This document is not a letter in the strict sense of the term. It's more in the nature of an invoice of the cargo of stupidity and bad luck, which I, the writer, Victor Jones of Philadelphia, have been freighted with by an all-wise providence for its own incomprehensible ends. Providence held him up for a moment. Was Providence neuter or masculine? He risked it and left it neuter and continued. When the servant announced luncheon he had covered twenty sheets of paper and had only arrived at the American bar of the Savoy. He went to luncheon, swallowed a whiting and half a cutlet, and returned. He sat down, read what he had written, and tore it across. That would never do. It was like the vast prelude to a begging letter. She would never read it through. He started again, beginning this time in the American bar of the Savoy, writing very carefully. He had reached, by tea time, the reading of Rochester's death in the paper. Well satisfied with his progress, he took afternoon tea and then sat down comfortably to read what he had written. He was aghast with the result. The things that had happened to him were believable because they had happened to him, but in cold writing they had an air of falsity. She would never believe this yarn. He tore the sheets across. Then he burned all he had written in the grate, took his seat in the arm chair, and began to think of the devil. Surely there was something diabolical in the whole of this business and the manner in which everything and every circumstance headed him off from escape. After dinner he was sitting down to attempt a literary forlorn hope when a sharp voice in the hall made him pause. The door opened and Venetia Birdbrook entered. She wore a new hat that seemed bigger than the one he had last beheld, and her manner was wild.  She's gone, said Venetia. Jones had risen to his feet. Who's gone? Teresa, gone with Manilov. He sat down. Then she blazed out. Are you going to do nothing?  She's gone. She's going to Paris. It was through her maid I learned it. She's gone from the hotel by this. Gone with Manilov.  You must follow her. He rose. Follow her now, follow her, and get her back. There is just a chance. They are going to the Bristol. The maid told everything. I will go with you. There is a train at nine o'clock from Victoria. You have only just time to catch it. I have no money, said Jones, feeling in his pockets distractedly. Only about four pounds. I have, replied she, and our car is at the door. Are you afraid or is it that you don't mind? Come on, said Jones. He rushed into the hall, seized a hat and overcoat, and next minute was buried in a stuffy limousine with Venetia's sharp elbow poking him in the side. He was furious. There are people who seem born for the express purpose of setting other people by the ears. Venetia was one of them. Despite voles, mullhousen, debts, and want of balance, one might hazard the opinion that it was Venetia who had driven the unfortunate Rochester to his mad act. The prospect of a journey to Paris with this woman in pursuit of another man's wife was bad enough, but it was not this prospect that made Jones furious, though assisting. No doubt it was Venetia herself. She raised the devil in him, and on the journey to the station, though she said not a word, she managed to raise his exasperation with the world, herself, himself, and his vile position to the limit just below the last. The last was to come. At the station they walked through the crowd to the booking office, where Venetia bought the tickets. Reminiscences of being taken on journeys as a small boy by his mother flitted across the mind of Jones and did not improve his temper. He looked at the clock. It wanted twenty minutes of the starting time, and he was in the act of evading a barrel of luggage when Venetia arrived with the tickets. It had come into the mind of Jones that not only was he traveling to Paris with the honourable Venetia Birdbrook in pursuit of the wife of another man, but that they were travelling without luggage. If in Philadelphia he had dreamt of himself in such a position, he would have been disturbed as to the state of his health and the condition of his liver. Yet now, in reality, the thing did not seem preposterous. He was concerned as to the fact about the want of luggage. Look here, said he. What are we to do? I haven't even a night suit of pajamas. I haven't even a toothbrush. No hotel will take us in. We don't want a hotel, said Venetia. We'll come back straight if we can save Teresa. If not, if she insists in pursuing her mad course, you had better not come back at all. Come on, and let us take our places in the train. They moved away, and she continued, for if she does, you will never be able to hold up your head again. Everyone knows how you have behaved to her. Oh, stop it, said he irritably. I have enough to think about. You ought to! Only just those three words, yet they set him off. Odd eye? Well, what of yourself?  About me? What things? Never mind. But I do, she stopped, and he stopped. I mined very much. What things did she tell you? Nothing much, only that you worried the life out of her, and that, though I was bad, you were worse. Venetia sniffed. She was just turning to resume her way to the train when she stopped dead like a pointer. That's them, she said in a hard tense whisper. Jones looked. A veiled lady, accompanied by a bearded man with a folded umbrella under his arm, and following a porter laden with wraps and small luggage, were making their way through the crowd towards the train. The veil did not hide her from him. He knew it once, it was she. It was then that Venetia's effect upon him, acted as the contents of the white paper, acts when emptied into the tumbler that holds the blue paper half of the sidelet's powder. Venetia saw his face. Don't make a scene, she cried. That was the stirring of the spoon. He rushed up to the bearded man and caught him by the arm. The bearded one turned sharply and pushed him away. He was a big man. He looked a powerful man. Dressed up as a conquering hero, he would have played the part to perfection, the sort of man women adore for their power and manliness. He had a cigarette between his thick red bearded lips. Jones wasn't much to look at, but he had practiced at odd times at Joe Hennessy's, otherwise known as Ike Snidebaum, of Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia, and he had the fighting pluck of a badger. He struck out, missed, got a drum-sounder in on the left ribs, right under the uplifted umbrella arm and the raised umbrella, and then, swift as light, got in an uppercut on the whiskers under the left side of the jaw. The umbrella man sat down, as men sit when chairs are pulled from under them, then, shouting for help, that was the humorous and pitiable part of it, scrambled on to his feet instantly to be downed again. Then he lay on his back with arms out, pretending to be mortally injured. The whole affair lasted only fifteen seconds. You can fancy the scene. Jones looked round. Venetia and the criminal, having seen the display, and at the national sporting club you often pay five pounds to see worse, were moving away together through the throne. The floored one, with arms still out, was murmuring, brandy, brandy, into the ear of a kneeling porter, and a station policeman was at Jones's side. Jones took him apart a few steps. I am the Earl of Rochester, said he, in a half whisper. That guy has got what he wanted, never mind what he was doing. Kick the beast awake and ask him if he wants to prosecute. The constable came and stood over the head-end of the sufferer, who is now leaning on one arm. Do you want to prosecute this gentleman? asked the constable. Nicheval! murmured the other. No. Brandy! Thought so, said Jones. Then he walked away towards the entrance with the constable. My address is Carlton House Terrace, said he. When you get that chap on his pins, you can tell him to come there, and I'll give him another dose. Here's a sovereign for you. Thanks, your Lordship! said the guardian of the peace. You landed him fine, I will say. I didn't see the beginning of the scrap, but I saw the knockout. You won't have any more bother with him. I don't think so, said Jones. He was elated, jubilant, a weight seemed lifted from his mind. All his evil humor had vanished. The feel of those whiskers and the resisting jaw was still with him. He had got one good blow in at circumstance and the world. He could have sung. He was coming out of the station when someone ran up from behind. It was Venetia. Venetia, delirious and jabbering. Teresa is in the car. Well, you have done it now. You have done it now. What made you do this awful thing? Are you mad? Here in the open station, before everyone? You have heaped this last disgrace on us. On me?  He sided the car, ran to it, and opened the door. A whimpering bundle in the corner stretched out hands as if to ward him off. Oh, oh, oh! sighed and murmured the bundle. Jones caught one of the hands, leaned in, and kissed it. Then he turned to Venetia, who had followed him. Get in, he said. She got in. He got in after her and closed the door. Venetia put her head out of the window. Home! cried she to the chauffeur. Jones said nothing till they had cleared the station precincts. Then he began to talk in the darkness, addressing his remarks to both women in a weird sort of monologue. All this is nothing, said he. You must both forget it.  No one that counts saw that. They were all strangers and making for the cars. I gave the officer a sovereign. What I have to say is this. I must have a meeting of the whole family tomorrow, tomorrow morning. Not about this affair, about something else, something entirely to do with me. I have been trying to explain all day, tried to write it out, but couldn't. I have to tell you something that will simply knock you all out of time. Suddenly the sniffing bundle in the corner became articulate. I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to do it. I hate him. Oh, juju, if you had not treated me so last night, I would never have done it. Never, never, never. I know, he replied, but it was not my fault leaving you like that. I had to go. You will know everything tomorrow. When you hear all, you will very likely never speak to me again, though I am innocent enough, Lord knows. Then came Venetia's voice. This is new. Heaven knows we have had disgrace enough. What else is going to fall on us? Why put it off till tomorrow? What new thing have you done? Before Jones could reply, the warm-hearted bundle in the corner ceased sniffing and turned on Venetia. No matter what he has done, you are his sister, and you have no right to accuse him. Accus him, cried the outrage to Venetia. Yes, accuse him. You don't say it, but you feel it. I believe you'd be glad in some wicked way if he had done anything really terrible. Venetia made a noise like the sound emitted by a choking hen. Teresa had put her finger on the spot. Venetia was not a wicked woman. She was something nearly as bad, a righteous woman, one of the ever judges. The finding out of other people's sins gave her pleasure. Before she could reply articulately, Jones interposed. An idea had suddenly entered his practical mind. Good heavens, said he, what has become of your luggage? I don't know, and I don't care, replied the roused one. Let it go with the rest. The car drew up. You will stay with us tonight, I suppose, said Venetia coldly. I suppose so, replied the other. Jones got out. I will call here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock, said he. I want the whole family present. Then, to the unfortunate wife of the defunct Rochester, don't worry about what took place this evening. It was all my fault. You will think differently about me when you hear all in the morning. She sighed and passed up the steps following Venetia, like a woman. When the door closed on them, he took the number of the house. Then, at the street corner, he looked at the name of the street. It was Curson Street. Then he walked home. Come what might, he had done a good evening's work. More than ever did he feel the charm of this woman, her loyalty, her power of honest love.  It was at this moment, whilst walking home to Carleton House Terrace, that the true character of Rochester appeared before him in a new and lurid light. Up to this, Rochester had appeared to him mad, tricky, irresponsible. But up to this, he had not clung to the power of love. Tricky, irresponsible. But up to this, he had not clearly seen the villainy of Rochester. The woman showed it. Rochester had picked up a stranger, because of the mutual likeness, and sent him home to play his part, hoping, no doubt, to have a ghastly hit at his family. What about his wife? He had either never thought of her, or he had not cared. And such a wife! That fellow ought to be dug up and cremated, said Jones to himself, as he opened the door with his latch key. He ought, sure. Well, I hope I'll cremate his reputation to-morrow. Having smoked a cigar, he went upstairs and to bed. He had been trying to think of how he would open the business on the morrow, of what he would say, to start with. Then he gave up the attempt, determining to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment. End of Chapter 19 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 20 OF THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF By H. DeVere Stackpool Chapter 20 THE FAMILY COUNCIL He arrived at Curson Street at fifteen minutes after nine next morning, and was shown up to the drawing-room by the butler. Here he took his seat, and waited the coming of the family, amusing himself as best he could by looking round at the furniture and pictures, and listening to the sounds of the house and the street outside. He heard taxi-horns, the faint rumble of wheels, voices. Now he heard someone running up the stairs outside, a servant probably, for the sound suddenly ceased and was followed by a laugh, as though two servants had met on the stairs and were exchanging words. One could not imagine any of that terrible family running up the stairs lightly, or laughing. Then, after another minute or two, the door opened, and the Duke of Milford entered. He was in light tweeds with a buff waistcoat. He held a morning paper under his arm, and was polishing his eyeglasses. He nodded at Jones. Morning, said his grace, waddling to a chair and taking his seat. The women will be up in a moment. He took his seat and spread open the paper as if to glance at the news. Then, looking up over his spectacles, glad to hear from Collins you've got that land back. I was in there just after you left, and he told me. Yes, said Jones, I've got it back. He had no time to say more, as at that moment the door opened and the women appeared, led by the Dowager Countess of Rochester.  Then with the deep breath of a man preparing for a dive, he began. I have asked you all to come here this morning. I asked you to meet me this morning, because I just want to tell you the truth. I am an intruder into your family. An intruder, cried the mother of the defunct. Arthur, what are you saying? One moment he went on. I want to begin by explaining what I have done for you all, and then perhaps you will see that I am an honest man, even though I am in a false position. In the last few days I have got back one million and eight thousand pounds, that is to say the coal mine property and other money as well, one million and eight thousand pounds that would have been a dead loss only for me. You have acted like a man, said the Duke of Milford. Go on, what do you mean about intrusion? Let me tell the thing in my own way, said Jones irritably.   The effect of this statement was surprising. The four listeners sat like frozen corpses for a moment. Then they moved, casting terrified eyes at one another. It was the Duke of Milford who spoke. We will leave your father's name alone, said he. Yes, we know he is dead. What more have you to say? I was not talking of my father, said Jones, beginning to get bogged and slightly confused, also angry. He was not my father. If you'll only listen to me without interrupting, I will make things plain. I am talking of myself, or at least the man whom I am representing, the Earl of Rochester. I say that I am not the Earl of Rochester. He is dead. He turned to Rochester's wife.  I am not your husband. I am an American. My name is Victor Jones and I come from Philadelphia. The Dowager Countess of Rochester, who had been leaning forward in her chair, sank back. She had fainted. Whilst Venetia and the Duke of Melford were bringing her to, the wife of Rochester, who had been staring at Jones in a terrified manner, ran from the room. She ran like a blind person with hands outspread. Jones stood whilst the unfortunate lady was resuscitated. She returned to consciousness, sobbing and flipping her hands, and she was led from the room by Venetia. Beyond the door, Jones heard her voice roused in lamentation. My boy! My poor boy! Venetia had said nothing. Jones had expected a scene, outcries, questions, but there was something in all this that was quite beyond him. They had asked no questions, seemed to take the whole thing for granted, Venetia especially.  Your mother—I mean, Lady Rochester's heart is not strong, said he, going to the bell and touching it. I must send for the doctor to see her. Jones, more than ever astonished by the coolness of the other, sat down again. Look here, said he. I can't make you all out. You've called me no names. You haven't let me fully explain. The old lady is the only one that seems to have taken the news in. Can't you understand what I have told you? Perfectly, said the old gentleman, and it's the most extraordinary thing I have ever heard, and the most interesting. I want to have a long talk about it. James, to the servant who had answered the bell, telephoned for Dr. Cavendish. Her ladyship has had another attack. Dr. Cavendish has just been telephoned for, your grace, and Dr. Sims. That will do, said his grace. Yes, pond my soul. It's quite extraordinary. He took a cigar case from his pocket. Prophered a cigar, which Jones took, and then lit one himself. Look here, said Jones, suddenly alarmed by a new idea. You aren't guying me, are you? You haven't taken it into your heads that I've gone dotty? Mad? Mad! cried the old gentleman with a start. Never! Such an idea never entered my mind. Why, why do you think I'm mad at you? Why, why should it? Only you take this thing so quietly. Quietly? Well, what would you have? My dear fellow, what is the good of shouting, ever? Not a bit. It's bad form. I take everything as it comes. Well, then, listen whilst I'll tell you how all this happened. I came over here some time ago to rope in a contract with the British Government over some steel fixtures. I was partner with a man named Aaron Stringer. Well, I failed on the contract and found myself broke with less than 10 pounds in my pocket. I was sitting in the Savoy Lounge when in came a man whom I knew at once by sight, but I couldn't place his name on him. We had drinks together in the American Bar, then we went upstairs to the lounge. He would not tell me who he was. Look in the looking-glass behind you, said he, and you will see who I am. I looked and I saw him. I was his twin image.  I'm not used to drink. We had a jamboree together and dinner at some place, and then he sent me home as himself. I was blind.  I ought to have spoken at once, but didn't. One makes mistakes in life. We all do that, said the other. Yes, go on. And later that day I opened a newspaper and saw my name and that I had committed suicide. It was Rochester, of course, that had committed suicide. Did it on the underground. Then I was in a nice fix. There I was in Rochester's clothes, with not a penny in my pockets. Couldn't go to the hotel, couldn't go anywhere, so I determined to be Rochester, for a while at least. I found his affairs in an awful muddle. You know that business about the coal mine. Well, I've managed to write his affairs. I wasn't thinking of any profit to myself over the business. I just did it because it was the right thing to do. Now I want to be perfectly plain with you. I might have carried on this game always and lived in Rochester's shoes only for two things. One is his wife. The other is a feeling that has been coming on me that if I carried on any longer, I might go dotty. Times I've had attacks of a feeling that I did not know who I was. It's leading this double life, you know. Now I want to get right back and be myself and cut clear of all this. You can't think what it has been carrying on this double life, hearing the servants calling me your lordship. I couldn't have imagined it would have acted on the brain so. I've been simply crazy to hear someone calling me by my right name. Well, that's the end of the matter. I want to settle up and get back to the States. The door opened and a servant appeared. Dr. Sims has arrived, your grace. The Duke of Milford rose from his chair. One moment, said he to Jones. He left the room closing the door. Jones tipped the ash of his cigar into a jardinier nearby. He was astonished and a bit disturbed by the cool manner in which his wonderful confession had been received. Can it be they are laying low and sending for the police? Thought he. He was debating this question when the door opened and the Duke walked in, followed by a bald, elderly, pleasant-looking man. After this latter came a cadaverous gentleman wearing glasses. The bald man was Dr. Sims, the cadaverous Dr. Cavendish. Sims nodded at Jones as though he knew him. I have asked these gentlemen as friends of the family to step in and talk about this matter before seeing Lady Rochester, said the Duke. She has been taken to her room and is not yet prepared for visitors. I shall be delighted to help in any way, said Sims. My services, professional or private, are always at your disposal, your grace. He sat down and turned to Jones. Now tell us all about it, said he. Cavendish took another chair and the Duke remained standing. Jones felt irritated, felt somewhat as a maestro would feel, who, having finished that musical-obstacle-race The Grand Polynés, finds himself requested to play it again. I've told the whole thing once, said he. I can't go over it again, the Duke knows. Suddenly Cavendish spoke. I understand from what his grace said on the stairs that there is some trouble about identity. Some trouble, said Jones. I reckon you are right in calling it some trouble. You are Mr. Jones, I think, said Sims. Victor Jones was the name I was christened by, answered Jones. Quite so, American? American. Now, Mr. Jones, as a matter of formality, has been called Jones, as a matter of formality, may I ask you where you live in America? Philadelphia. And, in Philadelphia, what might be your address? Number 1101 Walnut Street, replied Jones. Cavendish averted his head for a moment, and the Duke shifted his position on the hearthrog, leaving his elbow on the mantle and caressing for a moment his chin. Simms alone remained unmoved. Just so, said Sims. Have you any family? Nope. I beg your pardon? No. I thought you said nope, my mistake. Not a bit. I did say nope. It's short for no. Short for no. I see. Just so. Cavendish interposed with an air of interest. How would you spell that word? asked he. Jones resented Cavendish somehow. I don't know, said he. This isn't a spelling bee. N-O-P-E, I suspect. You gentlemen have undertaken to question me on behalf of the family as to my identity. I think we had better stick to that point. Just so, said Sims, precisely. Excuse me, said the Duke of Melford. I think if Mr. Jones wishes to prove his identity as Mr. Jones, he will admit that his actions will help. Now, Lord Rochester was a very, shall we say, fastidious person, quiet in his actions. Oh, was he? Said Jones. That's news. Quiet, that is, to say, in his movements. Let it stand at that. Now, my friend Collins said to me something about the eating of a document. Jones bristled. Collins had no right to tell you that, said he. I told him that privately. When did he tell you that? When I called, just after his interview with you, he did not say it in any way offensively. In fact, he seemed to admire you for your energy and so forth. Did you, in fact, eat a document? Asked Sims with an air of bland interest. I did and saved a very nasty situation and a million of money. What was the document? Asked Cavendish. A bill of exchange. Now, may I ask you why you did that? Quarried Sims. No, you may not, replied Jones. It's a private affair affecting the honor of another person. Quite so, said Sims. But just one more question.  Yes. What sort of voice was it? It was the sort of voice that belongs to common sense. Ha-ha! Laughed Cavendish. Good! Very good! But there is just something I want to ask. How was it, Mr., uh, Jones, that you turned into your present form, exchanged your position, as it were, with the Earl of Rochester? Oh, Lord! Said Jones. Then to the duke. Tell them. Well, said the duke, Mr. Jones was sitting in the lounge of a hotel when a gentleman entered whom he knew but could not recognize. Couldn't place his name, cut in Jones. Precisely. The gentleman said, turn around and look in the mirror. You've left the drinks out, said Jones. True. Mr. Jones and the gentleman had partaken of certain drinks. What were the drinks, put in Sims? Champagne cocktails, whiskey and soda. Then a bottle of Bollinger. After, said Jones. Mr. Jones looked into the mirror, continued the duke, and saw that he was the other gentleman, that is to say, Lord Rochester. No, the twin image, put in Jones. The twin image. Well, after that more liquor was consumed. The chap doped me with drink and sent me home as himself, cut in Jones. And I woke up in a strange bed with a guy pulling up the window-blinds. A guy? put in Cavendish. A chap. Church is his name. I thought I was being bamboozled. So I determined to play the part of Lord Rochester. You know the rest. Turning to the duke of Melford. Well, said Cavendish. I don't think we need to ask any more questions of Mr. Jones. We are convinced, I believe, that Mr. Jones, and the gentleman who was in charge of the duke, we are convinced, I believe, that Mr. Jones and the Earl of Rochester are different. Quite so, said Sims. We are sure of his bona fides, and of course it is for the family to decide how to meet this extraordinary situation. I am sure they will sympathize with Mr. Jones and make no trouble. It is quite evident he had no wrong intent. Now you're talking, said Jones. Quite so. One more question. Does it seem to you I have not been talking at all up to this? Jones laughed. It seems to me you have uttered one word or two. Ask a bee in a bottle. Has it been buzzing? The cadaverous Cavendish, who, from his outward appearance, presented no signs of a sense of humor, exploded at this hit, but Sims remained unmoved. Quite so, said he. Well, that's all there remains to be said. But now, as a professional man, has not all this tried you a good deal, Mr. Jones? I should think it was enough to try any man's health. Oh, my health is all right, said Jones. I can eat and all that, but times I felt as if I wasn't one person or the other. That's one of my main reasons for quitting, leaving aside other things. You see, I had to carry on up to a certain point, and if you'll excuse me blowing my own horn, I think I've not done bad. I could have put my claws in all that money. If I hadn't been a straight man, there's a lot of things I could have done, peers to me. Well, now that everything is settled, I think that ought to be taken into consideration. I don't ask much, just a commission on the money solved. Decidedly, said Sims. In my opinion, you are quite right. But as a professional man, my concern just a moment ago was about your health. Oh, the voyage back to the States will put that right. Quite so, but you will excuse my professional instinct, and I am giving you my services for nothing, if you'll let me. I notice signs of nerve exhaustion. Let's look at your tongue. Jones put out his tongue. Not bad, said Sims. Now just cross your legs. Jones crossed his legs right over left, and Sims, standing before him, gave him a little sharp tap just under the right kneecap. The leg flew out. Jones laughed. Exaggerated patella reflex, said Sims. Nerve fag, nothing more. A pill or two is all you want. You don't notice any difficulty in speech? Not much, said Jones, laughing. Say Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. Peter Piper piped a peck, began Jones, then he laughed. You can't say it, said Sims, cocking a wise eyebrow. You bet I can, said the patient. Peter Piper pucked a peck. Nerve exhaustion, said Sims. Say, Doc, cut in Jones, beginning to feel slight alarm. What are you getting at? What are you getting at?  There's not anything really wrong with me, is there? Nothing but what can be righted by care, replied Sims. Let me try Mr. Jones with a lingual test, said Cavendish. Say she stood at the door of the fish-sauce-shop in the strand, welcoming him in. She stood at the door of the fish-sauce-shop in the strand, welcoming him in, said Jones. Hmm, hmm, said Cavendish. That's crazy, said Jones. Nobody could say that. Oh, I'm all right.  The two doctors withdrew to a window and said a few words together. Then they both nodded to the Duke of Milford. Well, said the Duke, that settled, and now, Mr. Jones, I hope you will stay here for luncheon. Jones had had enough of that, House. Thanks, said he, but I think I'll be getting back. I want a walk. You'll find me at Carleton House Terrace where we can finish up this business. It's a weight off my mind now everything is over. I can tell you I'm hungry for the States. He rose and took his hat, which he had placed on the floor, nodded to the Duke of Milford, and turned to the door.  Excuse me, said Sims, but I would not advise you to go out in your condition. Much better stay here till your nerves have recovered. Jones stared at him. My nerves are all right, said he. Don't, my dear fellow, said Cavendish. Jones turned and looked at him, then turned again to the door. Sims was barring the way still. Don't talk nonsense, said Jones. Think I was a baby. I tell you I'm all right. What on earth do you mean? Upon my soul you're like a lot of children. He tried to pass Sims. You must not leave this room yet, said Sims. Pray quiet yourself. You mean to say you'll stop me? Yes. Then in a flash he knew these men had not been sent for to attend the Dowager Countess of Rochester. They were alienists, and they considered him to be Rochester. Rochester gone mad. Right from the first start of his confession he had been taken for a madman. That was why Venetia had said nothing. That was why the old lady had fainted. That was why his wife, at least Rochester's wife, had run from the room like a blind woman. He stood appalled for a moment before this self-evident fact. Then he spoke. Open that door. Get away from that door. Sit down and quiet yourself, said Sims, staring him full in the eye. You will not leave this house. It was Sims who sat down, flung away by Jones. Then Cavendish pinioned him from behind. The Duke of Melford shouted directions. Sims scrambled to his feet, and Jones, having one free of Cavendish, the rough-and-tumble began. They fought all over the drawing-room, upsetting Jardinier's little tables, costly China. Jones' foot went into a China cabinet carrying destruction amongst a concert party of little Dresden figures. Sims, his portly behind, bumped against a pedestal, bearing a portrait bust of the nineteenth Countess of Rochester, upsetting pedestal and smashing bust. And the Duke of Melford, fine old sportsman that he was, assisting in the business with the activity of a boy of eighteen, received a kick in the shin that recalled Eaton across a long vista of years. Then at last they had him down on a sofa, his hands tied behind his back with the Duke's bandana handkerchief. Jones had uttered no cry, the others no sound, but the bumping and banging and smashing had been heard all over the house. A tap came to the door and a voice. The Duke rushed to the door and opened it. Nothing, said he, nothing wrong, off with you.  Jones caught a glimpse of himself in a big mirror, happily unsmashed, caught a glimpse of himself all tumbled and tousaled with Sims beside him and Cavendish standing by, refixing his glasses. He recognized a terrible fact. Though he had smashed hundreds of pounds worth of property, though he had fought these men like a mad bull, now that the fight was over, they showed not the least sign of resentment. Sims was patting his shoulder. He had become possessed of the mournful privilege of the insane, to fight without raising ire in one's antagonists, to smash with impunity, to murder without being brought to justice.  He had acted like a madman, that is to say, like a man furious with anger. Anger and madness have awful similarities. He moved slightly away from Sims. I reckon I've been a fool, said he. Three to one is not fair play. Come, let my hands free, I won't fight any more. Certainly, said Sims, but let me point out that we were not fighting you in the least, only preventing you from taking your course detrimental to your health. Cavendish, will you kindly untie that absurd handkerchief? Cavendish obeyed, and Jones, his hands freed, rubbed his wrists. What are you going to do now? asked he. Nothing, said Sims.  I know you will say that you feel all right. No matter. Take a physician's advice and just remain here quiet for a little while. Shall we go to the library, where you can amuse yourself with a newspaper or a book, whilst I make up a little prescription for you? Look here, said Jones. Let's talk quietly for a moment. You think I'm mad. Not in the least, said Sims. You are only suffering from a nerve upset. Well, if I'm not mad, you have no right to keep me here. This was cunning, but unfortunately cunning, like anger, is an attribute of madness as well as of sanity. Now, said Sims, with an air of great frankness, do you think that it is for our pleasure that we ask you to stay here for a while? We are not keeping you, just asking you to stay. We will go down to the library and I will just have a prescription made up. Then, when you have considered matters a bit, you can use your own discretion about going. Jones recognized at once that there was no use in trying to fight this man with any other weapon than subtlety. He was fairly trapped. His tale was such that no man would believe it, and persisting in that tale he would be held as a lunatic. On top of the tale was Rochester's bad reputation for sanity. They called him Mad Rochester. Then, as he rose up and followed to the library, a last inspiration seized him. He stopped at the drawing-room door. Look here, said he. One moment. I can prove what I say. You send out a man to Philadelphia and to make inquiries. Fetch some of the people over that knew me.  We will do anything you like, said Sims. But first let us go down to the library. They went. It was a large pleasant-room lined with books. Sims sat down at the writing-table whilst the others took chairs. He wrote a prescription, and the Duke, ringing the bell, ordered a servant to take the prescription to the chemists. Then, during the twenty minutes before the servant returned, they talked. Jones giving again his address, that fantastic address which was yet real, and the names and descriptions of people he knew and who would know him. You see, gentlemen, said he, it's just this. I have only one crave in life just now, to be myself again. Not exactly that, but to be recognized as myself. You can't imagine what that feeling is. You needn't tell me. I know exactly what you think. You think I'm Rochester gone crazy. I know the yarn I've slung you sounds crazy, but it's the truth. The fact is, I felt at times, that if I didn't get someone to recognize me as myself, I'd go crazy. Just one person to believe in me, that's all I want, and then I'd feel free of this curse at Rochester. Put yourself in my place. Imagine that you have lost touch with everything you ever were, that you were playing another man's part, and that everyone in the world kept on insisting you were the other guy. Think of that for a position. Why, gentlemen, you might open that door wide. I wouldn't want to go out, not till I had convinced one of you at all events that my story was true. I wouldn't want to go back to the States, not till I had convinced you that I am who I am. It seems foolish, but it's a bedrock fact. I have to make good on this position, convince someone who knows the fact, and so get myself back. It wouldn't be any use my going to Philadelphia. I'd say to people I know there, I'm Jones. They'd say, of course you are, and believe me. But then, do you see, they wouldn't know of this adventure, and their belief in me wouldn't be a bit of good. Of course I know I'm Jones. All the same I've been playing the part of Rochester so hard that times I've almost believed I'm him. Times I've lost myself. And I have a feeling, at the back of my mind, that if I don't get someone to believe me, to be who I am, I may go dotty and earnest. It's a feeling without reason, I know. It's more like having a grit in the eye than anything else. I want to get rid of that grit, and I can't take it out myself. Someone else must do it. One person would be enough. Just one person to believe in what I say, and I would be myself again. That's why I want you to send to Philadelphia. The mind is a curious thing, gentlemen. The freedom of the body is nothing if the mind is not free, and my mind can never be free till another person who knows my whole story believes in what I say. I could not have imagined anyone being trapped like this. I've heard of an actor guy once playing a part so often he went loony and fancied himself the character. I'm not like that. I'm as sane as you. It's just this uneasy, uncomfortable feeling. This want to get absolutely clean out of this business. That's the trouble. Never mind, said Sims cheerfully. We will get you out, only you must not worry yourself.  Come in! The servant had knocked at the door. He entered with the medicine. Sims sent him for a wine-glass, and when it arrived he poured out a dose. Now take a dose of your medicine like a man, said the kindly physician, jocularly, and another in four hours' time. It will remake your nerves. Jones tossed the stuff out impatiently. Say, said he, there's another point I forgot. You might go to the Savoy and get the clerk there. He'd recognize me. The bartender in the American bar. He'd maybe be able to recognize me too. He saw us together. I say I feel a bit drowsy. You haven't doped me, have you? Sims and Cavendish, leaving the house together five minutes later, had a moment's conversation on the steps. What do you think of him? said Sims. Bad, said Cavendish. He reasons on his own case. That's always bad. And did you notice how cleverly he worked that in about wanting someone to believe in him? They walked down the street together. That smash has been coming for a long time, said Sims. It's an heirloom. It's a good thing it has come. He was getting to be a byword. I wonder what it is that introduces the humorous element into insanity? That address, for instance, 1191 Walnut Street, could never have strayed into a sane person's head. Nor a luncheon on bills of exchange, said Cavendish. Well, he will be all right at Hoover's. What was the dose you gave him? Heroine, mostly, replied the other. Well, so long. End of Chapter 20. Recording by Roger Maline


So this would be my very first video of the woman-to-woman series I know a couple of you guys have been looking forward to this series here. Yes. Look at this hair. This is that Flat twist with perm rods. I did.  I hope you're okay with that still trying to figure out a best As far as the schedule goes I think I'm gonna bring one to you guys every two weeks or so depending on my mood So this is the very first one and why not start off with a bang girl? I will be using correct terminology. Sometimes I may slip up and say pocketbook Lady parts, but that's just cuz I'm I'm silly disclaimer. If you do not want to hear this if you're not into this I would prefer if you're 18 years and older because there are some things I'm gonna bring up that are not for children But at some point girl, you don't have to learn how to clean your vagina But I hope you guys enjoyed this video those of you who have any other advice or tips, please put them down below below I am a Hygiene type of I don't want to I don't want to call it OCD But I'm very very particularly when it comes to smells and hygiene When I was living in Texas I would change my clothes if I felt sweaty I would change my clothes numerous of times because it's humid and then also Include my underwear if I'm getting hot and all that girl I change everything and I would shower it is not it was not uncommon at least for me And I know my husband was the same way for me to shower Twice in a day. So anyway, just let you know that's the background. So I think I know what I've been doing has been working Your vagina is a self-cleaning organ There is not a lot you need to do To ensure that is clean and that you're not having any unpleasant smells I think we all know by now that no one really doesn't eat dishing anymore I mean that went away in the late 80s early 90s You don't have to use scented products and it's probably best that you don't use those scented products I do not use anything on the market for feminine hygiene I know there there's some people who still use some things but for me personally I don't use those items. So my first tip will have to be Just your lifestyle You really really want to make sure that you are eating a well balanced diet that you're drinking plenty of water I don't see how People can eat a bunch of junk food and don't think that's not going to show up in their face there's their skin and The lady parts and how it smells like seriously and I'm not trying to be funny about that. So I Try to eat a very well balanced diet. I don't eat a lot of junk food. I'm trying to lay off on the processed food I don't do dairy at all Sometimes I'll have a little creamer, but I have switched over to almond creamer. Okay. Another thing to point out is that Women's to create a little bit more depending on it's before the menstrual cycle or after the menstrual cycle So any type of vaginal discharge is normal is when it starts to smell Changing color that's abnormal.  It could be clothes. It could be condoms It could be certain medications you may be taking so I'm gonna show you guys something that I Purposed just on Amazon for this video that have worked for other women besides taking a daily probiotic, which I would recommend anyway I'm out, but I need to be taking one. I'm in a really good pro probiotic if you can get one that's vegan even better I purchased this on Amazon Probiotic for your actual vagina and let's go ahead and open this up. I don't even know what it looks like I purchased this a while back Also, it looks like one of those tubes for like a we have a yeast infection So Okay, yeah, and you would just put this in here y'all this is the first time I opened this up seriously I guess you would just take one of these tubes put it in and insert it into your vagina And again, this could help with stabilizing your vagina pH, which would help with scent extra secretions and all that And now we I will be putting this below in the description box I've heard of other things such as soaking in bacon soda Putting I wouldn't do this, but some people have worked Putting yogurt on a tampon and insert it in your vagina girl, please. No, I wouldn't do it But apparently if it works for you great Apples out of vinegar soaks vinegar soaks of tea tree. All is another one, which I would still be careful with that So then now let's get into a little bit more of the hygiene besides eating. Well, you know taking Probiotics when you now have a problem, but this right here is maintenance So I use a separate soap from my body soap. I just do I have been using peppermint soap now for years For my lady part, so I use the dr. Bronner's Castle bar soap you can purchase this anywhere. I got this from Walmart But they also have liquid soap now I find in the dr. Bronner's version to I find that His it's more potent So I typically diluted the liquid soap that is because it's concentrate, but the equate version is not so bad So I've been using this to off and on and it's good. It's really good again castle soap Also when I go to the bathroom, I Make sure that I use more swipes depending on what I'm doing. We all use more swipes girls Gotta make sure you're clean and we know how to wipe properly by now Okay, so make sure that you're not tracking any of the cool matter up into your vagina region. So yes Gotta use wipes Shaving I do shave. I do believe in shaving. However Hair serves a purpose. Okay body hair that is serves a purpose is there to protect your body is there to protect certain areas But I'm not trying to look like here in a Henderson So I do make sure that it is well kept down below just using regular Shaving shaver nothing, you know fancy. I know some people they go get their legs up to the sky and get a breezy Brazilian wax Besides the peppermint soap really that's it. I don't use anything that's scented Very very gentle when washing the area making sure that you put you got multiple stuff going making sure that you point I'm not trying to be funny, but you want to make sure that you're cleaning thoroughly But you're very gentle with what you're doing because that area down below is extremely You don't want to be rough and scrubbing around you don't want to be doing too much You want to be gentle, okay? Use warm soapy water and a dishcloth. Please use a separate dishcloth. I'm not Yes, I use a different a separate dishcloth or I have separate dishcloth from my body dishcloth That sometimes I don't even use it at all as long as my hands are real soapy I get down below and work it in and we're good Patented dry. I try not to wear a lot of tight clothes only thing tight down below I wear is for a church my stockings and I immediately take those off a Few days out of the month I go bottomless at night to let a breathe because that's just That's just how I am you guys. That's just my tip for me personally I know in other countries I've heard of vaginal steaming and I once saw a documentary and I think I want to say was in Ethiopia where a woman had squatted over a Almost like simmering fire of different herbs and she was steaming her vagina Which is very it was very interesting to see that as far as underwear go. It may not be cute It may not be sexy 100% cotton. I'm not having anything up in my butt. You know no G strings or nothing I mean now after 10 o'clock when we want to play. Okay, but doing every day wear. I'm not wearing a thong I'm not wearing no G string. I'm not wearing anything that's tight. I'm wearing loose frutalum panties Draws that's what I'm I try to keep this as professional as possible But yes, that's for those of you who do wear underwear because I know there's some women who don't that 100% cotton It's the way to go and again, um, sometimes I will wear a panting liner in between the months in between the days of the month depending on Any type of vaginal discharge, which is again very normal is when it's a different color and this has a smell to it And this is mostly after my menstrual cycle for me for me personally Changing up pads any type of Whatever feminine products that you use ensuring that you're changing those out often Cleaning while you're on your menstrual cycle is important. I know there's some women who don't But there's this is dry blood y'all. I'm now I'm just getting graphic I know if you don't like to hear this, okay, but it's dry blood You want to make sure that you're cleaning your vagina when you're on your cycle is very important Okay, if you're a ph off you can have an overgrowth when you have an overgrowth You need to treat that with probiotics possibly some medications through your doctor your OBGYN Um, and that can happen to the best of us either through, you know, yeast infection or something like that But ensuring that you're eating well taking vitamins Cleaning properly changing your underwear when when needed using the right products said But yeah castle bar soap What I use I love it and that is it you guys let me know drop down below what your tips and secrets are So that is it take care. Bye


The cortical column is a fundamental computational circuit in the brain, consisting of distinct layers of neurons. To determine the boundaries separating these layers, researchers must first identify the input layer, which is often difficult to do in vivo. Current source density, CSD, analysis is the gold standard for identifying laminar boundaries in electrophysiological recordings, but it requires averaging over reliable evoked responses and is difficult to obtain in less studied cortical regions. Researchers have developed a new technique based on linear array recordings that can quickly and accurately identify the input layer in multiple cortical areas in two different species. This technique is more robust than CSD analysis and does not require averaging or specific evoked activity. It can also be used to validate CSD measurements or to estimate laminar boundaries when other methods are impractical. This article was authored by Zachary W. Davis, Nicholas M. Dotson, Tom P. Franken and others. We are article.tv, links in the description below.


Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States and Mrs. Reagan. Gentlemen, the national anthems of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and the United States of America. Allah wa sallam. It's a great privilege to welcome a world statesman, a leader of Arab and Muslim people, and a good friend of the United States, His Majesty King Fahad bin Abdul Aziz Al Saud. Although he is no stranger to our shores, it's been almost eight years since he has paid an official visit to the United States. And I'm honored to welcome him back again today. King Fahad's visit is in keeping with the warm personal relations enjoyed between the leaders of our two countries. A tradition which began 40 years ago this week when King Fahad's father and President Franklin Roosevelt met to exchange views. The goodwill that emerged from that meeting of two great men has enormously benefited both our peoples in the last four decades. The friendship and cooperation between our governments and people are precious jewels whose value we should never underestimate. The possessed positive nature of our relations demonstrates that cultural differences, as distinct as our own, need not separate or alienate peoples from one another. As the guardians of Mecca and the protectors of your faith, you rightfully exert a strong moral influence in the world of Islam. And the people of the United States are proud of their leadership role among the democratic nations. King Fahad, I hope that we can work together to seek a new rapprochement between the Islamic world and the Western democracies. Destiny has given us different political and social systems, yet with respect and goodwill, as our two countries have demonstrated, so much can be accomplished. I firmly believe that in the years ahead, there should be and will be a more powerful recognition of the common interests shared by these two significant world forces. Already, the bonds of commerce are strong, especially between our two countries. Petroleum from Saudi wells helps drive the engines of progress in the United States, while at the same moment, American technology and know-how help in the construction of Saudi roads, hospitals and communication systems. Saudi Arabia has grown into one of America's largest trading partners. The commercial and economic power that we exert in the world spurs enterprise and bolsters stability. I'd like to take this opportunity to express admiration for the responsible manner in which Saudi Arabia has conducted its economic affairs. King Fahad and other Saudi leaders conscious of the global impact of their financial and economic decisions have earned our respect and gratitude. There are many humanitarian contributions touch us deeply as well. Saudi aid to refugees uprooted from their homes in Afghanistan has not gone unnoticed here, Your Majesty. The people of the United States share with the people of Saudi Arabia a deep moral outrage over the continuing aggression and butchery taking place in Afghanistan. The citizens of the Western democracies in the Muslim world, by all that they believe to be true and just, should stand together in opposition to those who would impose dictatorship on all of mankind. Marxist tyranny already has its grip on the religious freedom of the world's fifth largest Muslim population. This same grip strangles the prayers of Christians, Jews and Muslims alike. We all worship the same God. Standing up to this onslaught, the people of Afghanistan with their blood, courage and faith are an inspiration to the cause of freedom everywhere. Afghanistan of course is not the only conflict in the region. We are also concerned about the tragic war between two of Saudi Arabia's neighbors, Iran and Iraq. A conflict is raging only a few minutes by air from Saudi territory. This bloodshed has dragged on far too long and threatens peace throughout the region. The United States will do what we can diplomatically to end the fighting and we will cooperate with Saudi Arabia to ensure the integrity of your borders. Your Majesty, I look forward to our discussions about these and other serious problems which continue to plague the Middle East. Together, our considerable influence and our moral suasion can, at the very least, decrease the threat of war. If the Saudi and American governments focus their energies, progress can be made, especially in the lingering dispute between Israel and her neighbors. I continue to believe that a just and lasting settlement based on United Nations Security Council Resolution 242 is within reach. The security of Israel and other nations of the region and the legitimate rights of the Palestinian people can and should be addressed in direct negotiations. It is time to put this tragedy to rest and turn the page to a new and happier chapter. Bringing about a better and more peaceful world will require courage, integrity and wisdom. King Fahd and others in his family before him have been admired for just these traits. I look forward to our discussions, King Fahd, and welcome to the United States. President, Mr. Reagan, the people, thank you very much. Mr. Reagan, I am very sorry because my English is not good. I tried to speak English, but I can't speak English. Good. Now I speak Arabic. Very sorry. President, I would like to express my gratitude to you for the joy of this meeting that brings us together for the first time on the land of the United Nations. Mr. President, I should like to express my happiness on the occasion of my visit to the United Nations. I would like to express my gratitude to you for the joy of this meeting that brings us together on the land of the United Nations. Mr. President, I should like to express my happiness on the occasion of my first meeting with you on the soil of the United States. And express my satisfaction with the steady growth of relations between our two countries. I look forward to a fruitful exchange of views for the benefit of our two countries and peoples in the interest of peace in our region. Thank you. Mr. President, since the historic meeting between His Majesty the late King Abdul Aziz Al Saoud and the late President Franklin Roosevelt, 40 years ago this month, the leaders of our two countries have continued to meet from time to time to discuss ways of promoting friendship and cooperation between our two countries and to consult and exchange views on international matters of mutual interest. This visit to your friendly country takes place in this same context. This visit to your friendly country takes place in this same context. Permit me, Mr. President, to turn back the pages of history to the period following the First World War, to the time when the majority of the Arab countries were suffering under the yoke of colonialism, when your country affirmed the principles that advocated the right of peoples to freedom, independence, and self-determination. At that time, when the name of the United States stood for freedom, justice, and independence, the aspirations of the Arab peoples were directed toward your country as the defender of truth and justice. Now we are in a new era in which the United States reaffirms those principles, this time under your leadership, Mr. President. I would like to ask Mr. President, Mr. President, to turn back the pages of history to the time when the United States was suffering under the yoke of colonialism, when your country was suffering under the yoke of freedom, independence, and self-determination. Mr. President, the majority of the Arab countries were suffering under the yoke of The history of your country is the history of your country, and you are walking with the leadership that is leading it in the international sphere. Mr. President, the majority of the Arab countries gained their freedom and independence with the exception of one people, the Palestinian people, who committed no wrong that could justify what has befallen them. The Palestinians, who were never aggressors or invaders, found themselves, through no fault of their own, the victims of unjust aggression. The Palestinian question is the single problem that is of paramount concern to the whole Arab nation and affects the relations of its peoples and countries with the outside world. It is the one problem that is the root cause of instability and turmoil in the region. I hope, Mr. President, that your administration will support the just cause of the Palestinian people. The president said, no doubt, that understanding the justice of the Palestinian people will bring the United States to justice, not only in the Arab world, but also in the Islamic countries and in the countries of the world, as well as the situation for the Palestinian people. We only ask for a just position that conforms with the history and ideals of your great country, a position that is consonant with its role of leadership in the international community. Such a position will earn the United States the respect and appreciation, not only of the Arab and Muslim worlds, but also of freedom-loving peoples everywhere. Similarly, the problem of Lebanon needs to be addressed in such a way that would guarantee the withdrawal of Israel from Lebanese territory and the achievement of Lebanon's sovereignty, territorial integrity, and full independence. Mr. President, I share your view that Saudi Arabia, with its Islamic beliefs and principles, and the United States, with its ideals and values, can together find a common ground against aggression, injustice, and oppression. Mr. President, as far as the people of Afghanistan are concerned, this people who want nothing but freedom against oppression, freedom from killing women and children, this people deserve our help. Mr. President, I do not wish to be long, but I would like to say in conclusion that it is indeed a pleasure to have this opportunity to congratulate you on the full confidence that your people have placed in you by supporting your presidency for a second term. This clearly demonstrates the extent of the confidence your people have in your wise leadership and your far-sightedness. And at the end, Mr. President, I would like to thank you very much for your courage, for your courage, for the people of the United States, and for the men of the country who are responsible for this, and I wish the United States all the best and at the same time, may our Lord have mercy on us by giving us the sun today in this beautiful light. And in conclusion, Mr. President, I would like to thank you very much and to thank the American people and all the officials of the U.S. government, and I wish you progress and good health, and I would like to thank God for giving us a beautiful sunny day today. Thank you very much. I hope I come again in the United States. I see many people in my close friend, and next time, I come just with nothing just for, like, anybody. Thank you very much.