“I took good care—since men in prison sometimes grow preternaturally observant—to age the guards and waiters, and to see to it that their uniforms showed increasing signs of wear. The chief warder was always accompanied by a pair of great dogs. At first, it was a couple of wolfhounds. I replaced these with older and older wolfhounds. Then there was a new young warder, and he had a pair of mastiffs—which, in their turn, I made appear to grow old, by a system of substitution.
“Naturally, I never entered the young gentleman’s chamber myself. But I had my reports to rely upon. Your Grace—within a few weeks, your nephew believed that he had been incarcerated for an incomputable number of years! Your Grace has had the nightmare, no doubt?”
The duke said, “I have, and it’s horrible. A second is an eternity, or worse. I think I understand you now, Hyrax. Go on.”
“By means of concealed lamps, there was always a diffused light in the chamber which, by the judicious use of hot-air pipes was maintained at a constant temperature of precisely seventy-four degrees Fahrenheit. As his Excellency slept, his clothes were taken away and replaced by others, precisely the same in pattern, but just a little more worn. I also arranged that his clothes should be made progressively a hairsbreadth larger, so that the young gentleman grew gradually convinced that he was becoming shriveled and wasted with long imprisonment.”
“Oh, clever, clever!” cried the duke, with a slight shudder. “I think that, on the whole, given the choice, I’d choose the iron boot, the thumbscrew, or the rack. Proceed.”
“Ah, but there is no question of choice, your Grace; for this method of mine depends for its effectiveness upon complete ignorance of the surrounding circumstances. Do I make myself clear?”
“Your object being, to plant a firm illusion that there has been a prolonged passage of time, when, as a matter of fact, only hours have elapsed,” said the duke.
“Just so,” said Hyrax. “I have written a carefully annotated ‘procedure’ for your Grace’s perusal. I can make four minutes last forty-eight hours, in the consciousness of the prisoner. I hasten to reassure your Grace that no common hand was laid on his Excellency, your nephew Stanislaus. His table was almost as well furnished as your Grace’s own; only he had the delicacies of the season out of season. And, allowing for certain inevitable margins of error, the young gentleman seemed to live a long month in half an hour. Between your Grace’s breakfast and dinner, he passed approximately a whole year.”
“Well,” said the duke, “that may teach the pup a lesson, not to plot against his poor old uncle, who used to think the world of him. Well, come to the point. What made Stanislaus betray his friends? They are my enemies, it is true, but . . . well, I think the worse of him notwithstanding.”
Colonel Hyrax said, “But his Excellency did not betray his friends, your Grace.”
“Will you tell me what the devil you are talking about?” roared the duke.
“I mean, he did not betray them wittingly.”
“Oh? If you have deranged the rascal with your dirty drugs—” began the duke.
“No, no, your Grace. The drugs were used discreetly, and sparingly, and then only for the first three weeks. Time, time, time was the illusion with which I took the liberty of bedazzling the young gentleman—time as man knows it, through the contemplation of mere external change. Men and fashions seemed to come and go. Once, on my order, a guard let fall a newspaper. It was post-dated fifteen years: I had had one copy only printed before the type was broken up, and it was full of news of people and affairs his Excellency had never heard of.”
“Most damnably clever!” exclaimed the duke. “And my poor—I mean that wretched fellow who is supposed to be my brother’s son, and couldn’t even keep faith with his fellow-criminals: did he write nothing?”
“Only some verses, your Grace.”
“About me?”
“About worms. But I see that your Grace is anxious to be after the boar, so I will conclude for now. After the young gentleman had been in that chamber about forty days, the door was opened by a young officer in a strange uniform—gray faced with yellow—and an older officer, in the same colors, but having a dolman trimmed with sable, came in, fell on his knees, and hailed your nephew as martyr, savior, and leader. The duke, he said, was dead, the new party was in power, and Stanislaus was to sit on your throne.”
The duke laughed. “Ha! And I suppose my nephew jumped for joy?”
“Not so, your Grace. He said—and I quote, so you will forgive me—he said, ‘The old ruffian was kind to me once upon a time.’ Then he said, ‘And all my friends, I suppose, are dead, or old—which is worse.’”
“Aha!” cried the duke, “we are coming to it, now!”
“Yes, your Grace. The commanding officer said, ‘If you will tell me whom you mean, your Excellency, I shall immediately ascertain.’” Whereupon, your nephew recited a list of forty names, which are on the paper which I have the honor to place in your Grace’s hand.”
“Hyrax,” said the duke, “you are hellishly clever! And my nephew—how is he?”
“I was listening to the proceedings at a concealed aperture, and did not see his Excellency at first. Then, when he came into my range of vision, I was astounded. For where, a few weeks before, I had seen a sanguine young man of twenty-four, I now beheld a decrepit and enfeebled man of sixty!”
The duke was silent. Colonel Hyrax pointed to the paper upon which the names of the conspirators were written. “Your Grace will hang them?” he asked.
“No. I shall shock the wits out of them by pardoning them, and make forty friends into the bargain. Where’s Stanislaus?”
“Asleep, your Grace,” said Colonel Hyrax.
“You are an astonishingly clever man, Hyrax,” said the duke. “Did I not say that if you cleared this matter up I’d make a nobleman of you?”
“The work is its own reward, your Grace,” said Hyrax.
“No, you have earned my gratitude. I hereby confer upon you the Barony of Opa, with all lands, rents, and revenues pertaining thereunto.”
“Oh, your Grace! Words cannot express—”
“—Save them, then. Leave me, now.”
Hyrax having bowed himself out of his presence, the duke called for his secretary. A soberly attired gentleman came in and made his obeisance. “Your Grace?”
“Colonel Hyrax is now Colonel, the Baron Opa. Make a note of it.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
The duke paced the floor, tugging at his beard. “And write me an order to the Lord Provost,” he said. “Write as follows:—‘Bearing in mind the new dignity of Colonel Hyrax, whom we have recently created Baron of Opa, you will procure a silk cord and hang him forthwith’.” Scrawling his signature at the foot of this document, and impressing the warm wax with his great carnelian ring, the duke muttered, “One could no longer sleep with such a man awake. He is too clever by half.”
A nameless cold had crept into his heart. He looked long and anxiously at the morning sun, and listened with more than usual attention to the portentous ticking of the great bronze clock. Presently, he said to his secretary, “Dismiss the men. I hunt no boar today.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“I desire to see Stanislaus.”
“Shall he be sent for?”
“No. I go to him.”
The secretary, a good-hearted man, ventured to ask, “Oh please, your Grace—is it your gracious intention magnanimously to pardon the unhappy young gentleman?”
The duke growled, “No. My Grace’s intention is humbly to beg the unlucky young gentleman, out of his magnanimity, to pardon me.”