bberts arrived yet?" he asked, without preliminary
talk.

"Yes, sir," answered the man.

"Is he in his room?"

"No, sir. He has just come down, after dressing, and is in the drawing-
room.

"I must see him at once," gasped Shorely. "It is a matter of life and
death. Take me to the drawing-room."

The man, in some bewilderment, led him to the door of the drawing-room,
and Shorely heard the sound of laughter from within. Thus ever are
comedy and tragedy mingled. The man threw the door open, and Shorely
entered. The sight he beheld at first dazzled him, for the room was
brilliantly lighted. He saw a number of people, ladies and gentlemen,
all in evening dress, and all looking towards the door, with
astonishment in their eyes. Several of them, he noticed, had copies of
the _Sponge_ in their hands. Bromley Gibberts stood before the
fire, and was very evidently interrupted in the middle of a narration.

"I assure you," he was saying, "that is the only way by which a story
of the highest class can be sold to a London editor."

He stopped as he said this, and turned to look at the intruder. It was
a moment or two before he recognised the dapper editor in the
bedraggled individual who stood, abashed, at the door.

"By the gods!" he exclaimed, waving his hands. "Speak of the editor,
and he appears. In the name of all that's wonderful, Shorely, how did
you come here? Have your deeds at last found you out? Have they ducked
you in a horse-pond? I have just been telling my friends here how I
sold you that story, which is making the fortune of the _Sponge_.
Come forward, and show yourself, Shorely, my boy."

"I would like a word with you," stammered Shorely.

"Then, have it here," said the novelist. "They all understand the
circumstances. Come and tell them your side of the story."

"I warn you," said Shorely, pulling himself together, and addressing
the company, "that this man contemplates a dreadful crime, and I have
come here to prevent it."

Gibberts threw back his head, and laughed loudly.

"Search me," he cried. "I am entirely unarmed, and, as every one here
knows, among my best friends."

"Goodness!" said one old lady. "You don't mean to say that Channor
Chase is the scene of your story, and where the tragedy was to take
place?"

"Of course it is," cried Gibberts, gleefully. "Didn't you recognise the
local colour? I thought I described Channor Chase down to the ground,
and did I not tell you you were all my