It has appeared from the foregoing, Muriel and Laylah, when you have quite finished, thank you — presently! — that even that which was most real about Sir Roger Bloxam was no more than the fucked out fag-end of a bad dream of the universe; and whether even the universe is real is of course a moot point. I like that word ‘moot’. But, as we shall see later, Sir Roger himself was not of prime importance, even to himself; for he was not himself. Hush! I’ll explain it all later. I must begin like this if I’m to be properly mysterious, which, as I am Custos of the Illuminati, the Devil and Adam Weishaupt know I ought to be. (If you had only eighty cents to spare, would you buy ether or candy? ‘Tis doubts like this that cloud the mind, and interrupt Our Story. Oh Lord! send me two thousand dollars and let me finish the damned thing in peace! I promise not to use a stenographer — “An easy promise!” sneers the Lord. “Abuse is your trade.” Vell, then, I won’t abuse her; and why should I want to butt in? Get on! Get on! Not even a preliminary Off.) I am glad that misunderstanding is over; but I have lost the golden thread, Medea; we shall never reach the heart of the labyrinth. Come, kiss me, Clio, let us start afresh; water thy horse with mine at the Circean spring; then let us mount the eager slopes of heaven, and, gazing upon earth, see in all due proportion that most fascinating shape, that soul Circean, that siren sun of a gun, Sir Roger Bloxam. For it is his Life and Adventures that are not to form the subject of Our Story.