I do not deny that he was eccentric; the mania he had for keeping that
cat and teasing her until she flew at his face like a demon, was
certainly eccentric. I never could understand why he kept the creature,
nor what pleasure he found in shutting himself up in his room with this
surly, vicious beast. I remember once, glancing up from the manuscript I
was studying by the light of some tallow dips, and seeing Mr. Wilde
squatting motionless on his high chair, his eyes fairly blazing with
excitement, while the cat, which had risen from her place before the
stove, came creeping across the floor right at him. Before I could move
she flattened her belly to the ground, crouched, trembled, and sprang
into his face. Howling and foaming they rolled over and over on the
floor, scratching and clawing, until the cat screamed and fled under the
cabinet, and Mr. Wilde turned over on his back, his limbs contracting and
curling up like the legs of a dying spider. He _was_ eccentric. Mr. Wilde had climbed into his high chair, and, after studying my face,
picked up a dog's-eared ledger and opened it. "Henry B. Matthews," he read, "book-keeper with Whysot Whysot and
Company, dealers in church ornaments. Called April 3rd. Reputation
damaged on the race-track. Known as a welcher. Reputation to be repaired
by August 1st. Retainer Five Dollars." He turned the page and ran his
fingerless knuckles down the closely-written columns. "P. Greene Dusenberry, Minister of the Gospel, Fairbeach, New Jersey. Reputation damaged in the Bowery. To be repaired as soon as possible. Retainer $100." He coughed and added, "Called, April 6th." "Then you are not in need of money, Mr. Wilde," I inquired. "Listen," he coughed again. "Mrs. C. Hamilton Chester, of Chester Park, New York City. Called April
7th. Reputation damaged at Dieppe, France. To be repaired by October 1st
Retainer $500. "Note.--C. Hamilton Chester, Captain U.S.S. 'Avalanche', ordered home
from South Sea Squadron October 1st." "Well," I said, "the profession of a Repairer of Reputations is
lucrative." His colourless eyes sought mine, "I only wanted to demonstrate that I
was correct. You said it was impossible to succeed as a Repairer of
Reputations; that even if I did succeed in certain cases it would cost
me more than I would gain by it. To-day I have five hundred men in my
employ, who are poorly paid, but who pursue the work with an enthusiasm
which possibly may be born of fear. These men enter every shade and grade
of society; some even are pillars of the most exclusive social temples;
others are the prop and pride of the financial world; still others, hold
undisputed sway among the 'Fancy and the Talent.' I choose them at my
leisure from those who reply to my advertisements. It is easy enough,
they are all cowards. I could treble the number in twenty days if I
wished. So you see, those who have in their keeping the reputations of
their fellow-citizens, I have in my pay." "They may turn on you," I suggested. He rubbed his thumb over his cropped ears, and adjusted the wax
substitutes. "I think not," he murmured thoughtfully, "I seldom have to
apply the whip, and then only once. Besides they like their wages." "How do you apply the whip?" I demanded. His face for a moment was awful to look upon. His eyes dwindled to a pair
of green sparks. "I invite them to come and have a little chat with me," he said in a soft
voice. A knock at the door interrupted him, and his face resumed its amiable
expression. "Who is it?" he inquired. "Mr. Steylette," was the answer. "Come to-morrow," replied Mr. Wilde. "Impossible," began the other, but was silenced by a sort of bark from
Mr. Wilde. "Come to-morrow," he repeated. We heard somebody move away from the door and turn the corner by the
stairway. "Who is that?" I asked. "Arnold Steylette, Owner and Editor in Chief of the great New York
daily." He drummed on the ledger with his fingerless hand adding: "I pay him very
badly, but he thinks it a good bargain." "Arnold Steylette!" I repeated amazed. "Yes," said Mr. Wilde, with a self-satisfied cough. The cat, which had entered the room as he spoke, hesitated, looked up at
him and snarled. He climbed down from the chair and squatting on the
floor, took the creature into his arms and caressed her. The cat ceased
snarling and presently began a loud purring which seemed to increase in
timbre as he stroked her. "Where are the notes?" I asked. He pointed to
the table, and for the hundredth time I picked up the bundle of
manuscript entitled--

"THE IMPERIAL DYNASTY OF AMERICA." One by one I studied the well-worn pages, worn only by my own handling,
and although I knew all by heart, from the beginning, "When from Carcosa,
the Hyades, Hastur, and Aldebaran," to "Castaigne, Louis de Calvados,
born December 19th, 1877," I read it with an eager, rapt attention,
pausing to repeat parts of it aloud, and dwelling especially on "Hildred
de Calvados, only son of Hildred Castaigne and Edythe Landes Castaigne,
first in succession," etc., etc. When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and coughed. "Speaking of your legitimate ambition," he said, "how do Constance and
Louis get along?" "She loves him," I replied simply. The cat on his knee suddenly turned and struck at his eyes, and he flung
her off and climbed on to the chair opposite me. "And Dr. Archer! But that's a matter you can settle any time you wish,"
he added. "Yes," I replied, "Dr. Archer can wait, but it is time I saw my cousin
Louis." "It is time," he repeated. Then he took another ledger from the table and
ran over the leaves rapidly. "We are now in communication with ten
thousand men," he muttered. "We can count on one hundred thousand within
the first twenty-eight hours, and in forty-eight hours the state will
rise _en masse_. The country follows the state, and the portion that
will not, I mean California and the Northwest, might better never have
been inhabited. I shall not send them the Yellow Sign." The blood rushed to my head, but I only answered, "A new broom sweeps
clean." "The ambition of Caesar and of Napoleon pales before that which could not
rest until it had seized the minds of men and controlled even their
unborn thoughts," said Mr. Wilde. "You are speaking of the King in Yellow," I groaned, with a shudder. "He is a king whom emperors have served." "I am content to serve him," I replied. Mr. Wilde sat rubbing his ears with his crippled hand. "Perhaps Constance
does not love him," he suggested. I started to reply, but a sudden burst of military music from the street
below drowned my voice. The twentieth dragoon regiment, formerly in
garrison at Mount St. Vincent, was returning from the manoeuvres in
Westchester County, to its new barracks on East Washington Square. It was
my cousin's regiment. They were a fine lot of fellows, in their pale
blue, tight-fitting jackets, jaunty busbys and white riding breeches with
the double yellow stripe, into which their limbs seemed moulded.