I found him a curious mixture. Behind
the shrewd, cynical man of business I caught continual glimpses of
the visionary.
I parted from him at The Hague. He paid my fare back to London, and
gave me an extra pound for travelling expenses, together with the
ten-pound note he had promised me. He had packed off "Mrs. Horatio
Jones" some days before, to the relief, I imagine, of both of them,
and he himself continued his journey to Berlin. I never expected to
see him again, although for the next few months I often thought of
him, and even tried to discover him by inquiries in the City. I
had, however, very little to go upon, and after I had left Fenchurch
Street behind me, and drifted into literature, I forgot him.
Until one day I received a letter addressed to the care of my
publishers. It bore the Swiss postmark, and opening it and turning
to the signature I sat wondering for the moment where I had met
"Horatio Jones." And then I remembered.
He was lying bruised and broken in a woodcutter's hut on the slopes
of the Jungfrau. Had been playing a fool's trick, so he described
it, thinking he could climb mountains at his age. They would carry
him down to Lauterbrunnen as soon as he could be moved farther with
safety, but for the present he had no one to talk to but the nurse
and a Swiss doctor who climbed up to see him every third day.
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