ccepted an invitation
to play croquet with me. That afternoon I prepared the garden with a
deluge of champagne. The golden drops sparkled on every rose-petal: the
lawn was drenched with it. After playing one round the Bishop was
gloriously inflamed. He had to be carried home, roaring the most
unseemly ditties. Since then, as I say, he has grown (I fear) a trifle
suspicious. But let us have a bite of supper."

More than once, as they sat under a thickly leafy grape arbor in the
quiet green enclosure, Bleak had to pinch himself to confirm the
witness of his senses. A table was delicately spread with an agreeable
repast of cold salmon, asparagus salad, fruits, jellies, and whipped
creams. The flagon of dandelion vintage played its due part in the
repast, and Mr. Bleak began to entertain a new respect for this common
flower of which he had been unduly inappreciative. Although the trellis
screened them from observation, Quimbleton seemed ill at ease. He kept
an alert gaze roving about him, and spoke only in whispers. Once, when
a bird lighted in the foliage behind them, causing a sudden stir among
the leaves, his shaggy beard whirled round with every symptom of panic.
Little by little this apprehension began to infect the journalist also.
At first he had hardly restrained his mirth at the sight of this burly
athlete framed in the bush of Santa Claus. Now he began to wonder
whether his escapade had been consummated at too great a risk.

That old-fashioned quarter of the city was incredibly still. As the
light ebbed slowly, and broad blue shadows crept across the patch of
turf, they sat in a silence broken only by the wiry cheep of sparrows
and the distant moan of trolley cars. The arrows of the decumbent sun
gilded the ripening grapes above them. Suddenly there were two loud
bangs and a vicious whistle sang through the arbor. Broken twigs eddied
down upon the table cloth.

"Spotted mackerel!" cried Bleak. "Is some one shooting at us?"

Quimbleton reappeared presently from under the table. "All serene," he
said. "We're safe now. That was only Chuff. Every night about this time
he comes out on his back gallery and enjoys a little sharp-shooting.
He's a very good shot, and picks off the grapes that have ripened
during the day. There were only two that were really purple this
evening, so now we can go ahead. Unless he should send over a raiding
party, we're all right."

The editor solaced himself with another beaker of the d