"I cheated you once about a penknife."
The wind in the garden had gathered strength, and was throwing the tree
backwards and forwards with the man in the thick of it, just as it
had on the gay and golden afternoon when he had first arrived.
"But are you Smith?" asked Inglewood as in an agony.
"Very nearly," said the voice out of the tossing tree.
"But you must have some real names," shrieked Inglewood in despair.
"You must call yourself something."
"Call myself something," thundered the obscure voice, shaking the tree
so that all its ten thousand leaves seemed to be talking at once.
"I call myself Roland Oliver Isaiah Charlemagne Arthur Hildebrand
Homer Danton Michaelangelo Shakespeare Brakespeare--"
"But, manalive!" began Inglewood in exasperation.
"That's right! that's right!" came with a roar out of the rocking tree;
"that's my real name." And he broke a branch, and one or two autumn
leaves fluttered away across the moon.
Part II
The Explanations of Innocent Smith
Chapter I
The Eye of Death;
or, the Murder Charge
The dining-room of the Dukes had been set out for the Court
of Beacon with a certain impromptu pomposity that seemed somehow
to increase its cosiness.
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