They waited in silence.

It was only about two or three minutes before, suddenly, they saw Reginald Montague again in front of them. He sat still for another minute or two, then he stepped forward and gave the Chief Justice several pages of manuscript. "Well, uncle?" he asked triumphantly.

Arglay took the papers and looked at them. They were those on which he had been making notes that afternoon, and he had, he knew, left them on his table. He turned them over in silence. Chloe released his arm suddenly and sat down. Sir Giles strolled back to them. "Interesting exhibit, what?" he said.

The Chief Justice's mind admitted the apparent fact. It was impossible, but it had happened. In less than five minutes these papers had been brought from Lancaster Gate to Ealing. He loosed the little sigh which always preceded his giving judgement and nodded. "I don't know whether it's the Crown of Suleiman, Giles," he said, "or some fantasia of our own. But it certainly seems to work."

"What about trying it, uncle?" Reginald said invitingly, removing the gold circlet from his head and holding it out. "It's quite simple. You just put it on and wish firmly to gowherever you choose."

"Wishing firmly is a very difficult thing," Lord Arglay said. "But if you can I suppose I can." He took the Crown and looked at Chloe. "Where shall I go, Miss Burnett?" he asked.

"Somewhere quiet," Sir Giles interjected. "If you choose the House of Commons or London Bridge or anything like that you'll cause a sensation. Try your-" he paused a moment, "dining-room," he added.

"I'd rather go somewhere I didn't know," Arglay said.

"Go to my sitting-room, Lord Arglay," Chloe put in swiftly. "I don't suppose you even remember what the address is. Oh -let me think-on the table is last week's New Statesman."

"There isn't likely to be any other fellow there?" Sir Giles asked. "No? All right, Arglay. Better sit down; it's apt to jar you, they say. Now-will yourself there."

Lord Arglay took the Crown in both hands and set it on his head. Chloe involuntarily compared the motion with Montague's. Reginald had put it on with one hand as if he were settling a cap; against his thin form the Chief Justice's assured maturity stood like a dark magnificence. He set on the Crown as if he were accepting a challenge, and sat down as if the Chief Justice of England were coming to some high trial, either of another or of himself. Chloe, used to seeing and hearing him when his mind played easily with his surroundings, used to the light courtesy with which he had always treated her, had rarely seen in him that rich plenitude of power which seemed to make his office right and natural to him. Once or twice, when, in dictating his book, he had framed slowly some difficult and significant paragraph, she had caught a hint of it, but her attention then had been on her work and his words rather than his person. She held her breath as she looked, and her eyes met his.