Hawberk explained that in addition to the treasures of armor in the Metropolitan Museum, of which he had been appointed armorer, he also had charge of several collections belonging to rich amateurs. This was the missing greave of a famous suit which a client of his had traced to a little shop in Paris on the Quai d'Orsay. He, Hawberk, had negotiated for and secured the greave, and now the suit was complete. He laid down his hammer and read me the history of the suit, traced since 1450 from owner to owner until it was acquired by Thomas Stainbridge.
When his superb collection was sold, this client of Hawberk's bought the suit, and since then the search for the missing greave has been pushed until it was, almost by accident, located in Paris.
"Did you continue the search so persistently without any certainty of the greave being still in existence?" I demanded.
"Of course," he replied, coolly. Then for the first time I took a personal interest in Hawberk. "It was worth something to you," I ventured. "No," he replied, laughing, "my pleasure in finding it
was my reward." "Have you no ambition to be rich?" I asked, smiling. "My one ambition is to be the best armorer in the world,"
he answered, gravely. Constance asked me if I had seen the ceremonies at the Lethal Chamber.
She herself had noticed cavalry passing up Broadway that morning, and had
wished to see the inauguration, but her father wanted the banner finished,
and she had stayed at his request. "Did you see your cousin, Mr. Castaigne, there?" she asked,
with the slightest tremor of her soft eyelashes. "No," I replied, carelessly. "Louis' regiment is manoeuvring
out in Westchester County." I rose and picked up my hat and cane.
"Are you going up-stairs to see the lunatic again?" laughed
old Hawberk. If Hawberk knew how I loathe that word "lunatic,"
he would never use it in my presence. I rouses certain feelings within
me which I do not care to explain. However, I answered him quietly: "I think I shall drop in and see Mr. Wilde for a moment or two."
"Poor fellow," said Constance, with a shake of her head, "it
must be hard to live alone year after year, poor, crippled, and almost
demented. It is very good of your, Mr. Castaigne, to visit him as often
as you do." "I think he is vicious," observed Hawberk, beginning again
with his hammer. I listened to the golden tinkle on the greave-plates;
when he had finished I replied: "No, he is not vicious, nor is he in the least demented. His mind
is a wonder chamber, from which he can extract treasures that you and I
would give years of our lives to acquire." Hawberk laughed. I continued, a little impatiently: "He knows history as no one
else could know it. Nothing, however trivial, escapes his search, and his
memory is so absolute, so precise in details, that were it known in New
York that such a man existed the people could not honor him enough."
"Nonsense!" muttered Hawberk, searching on the floor for a
fallen rivet. "Is it nonsense," I asked, managing to suppress what I felt
-- "is it nonsense when he says that the tassets and cuissards of
the enamelled suit of armor commonly known as the 'Prince's Emblazoned'
can be found among a mass of rusty theatrical properties, broken stoves,
and ragpicker's refuse in a garret in Pell Street?" Hawberk's hammer fell to the ground, but he picked it up and asked,
with a great deal of calm, how I knew that the tassets and left cuissard
were missing from the "Prince's Emblazoned." "I did not know until Mr. Wilde mentioned it to me the other day.
He said they were in the garret of 998 Pell Street." "Nonsense!" he cried; but I noticed his hand trembling under
his leather apron. "Is this nonsense, too?" I asked pleasantly. "Is it nonsense
when Mr. Wilde continually speaks of you as the Marquis of Avonshire, and
of Miss Constance --" I did not finish, for Constance had started to her feet with terror
written on her every feature. Hawberk looked at me and slowly smoothed
his leathern apron. "That is impossible," he observed. "Mr.
Wilde may know a great many things --" "About armor, for instance, and the 'Prince's Emblazoned,'"
I interposed, smiling. "Yes," he continued, slowly, "about armor also -- maybe
-- but he is wrong in regard to the Marquis of Avonshire, who, as you know,
killed his wife's traducer years ago, and went to Australia, where he did
not long survive his wife." "Mr. Wilde is wrong," murmured Constance. Her lips were blanched,
but her voice was sweet and calm. "Let us agree, if you please, that in this one circumstance Mr.
Wilde is wrong," I said. II When he had double-locked the door and pushed a heavy chest against
it, he came and sat down beside me, peering up into my face with his little,
light-colored eyes. Half a dozen new scratches covered his nose and cheeks,
and the silver wires which supported his artificial ears had become displaced.
I thought I had never seen him so hideously fascinating. He had no ears.
The artificial ones, which now stood out at an angle from the fine wire,
were his one weakness. They were made of wax and painted a shell pink; 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 & Company, dealers in church ornaments. Called April 3rd. Reputation
damaged on the racetrack. 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."
but the rest of his face was yellow. He might better have revelled in the
luxury of some artificial fingers for his left hand, which was absolutely
fingerless, but it seemed to cause him no inconvenience, and he was satisfied
with his wax ears. He was very small, scarcely higher than a child of ten,
but his arms were magnificently developed, and his thighs as thick as any
athlete's. Still, the most remarkable thing about Mr. Wilde was that a
man of his marvellous intelligence and knowledge should have such a head.
It was flat and pointed, like the heads of many of those unfortunates whom
people imprison in asylums for the weak-minded. Many called him insane,
but I knew him to be as sane as I was.
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 the 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 onto 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. 
ARTWORK � Larry Loc 1997