mous emerald each,
while the old man hopelessly struggled till he saw his three emeralds
go, and fell to the floor and wept, a pitiable, sodden heap.

And about that time I began to hear far off down the windy road, by
which that sack had come, faintly at first and slowly louder and
louder, the click clack clop of a lame horse coming nearer. Click
clack clop and a loose shoe rattling, the sound of a horse too weary
to be out upon such a night, too lame to be out at all.

Click clack clop. And all of a sudden the old wayfarer heard it;
heard it above the sound of his won sobbing, and at once went white to
the lips. Such sudden fear as blanched him in a moment struck right
to the hearts of all there. They muttered to him that it was only
their play, they hastily whispered excuses, they asked him what was
wrong, but seemed scarcely to hope for an answer, nor did he speak,
but sat with a frozen stare, all at once dry-eyed, a monument to
terror.

Nearer and nearer came the click clack clop.

And when I saw the expression of that man's face and how its horror
deepened as the ominous sound drew nearer, then I knew that something
was wrong. And looking for the last time upon all four I saw the
wayfarer horror-struck by his sack and the other three crowding round
to put their huge emeralds back then, even on such a night, I slipped
away from the inn.

Outside the bitter wind roared in my ears, and close in the darkness
the horse went click clack clop.

And as soon as my eyes could see at all in the night I saw a man in a
huge hat looped up in front, wearing a sword in a scabbard shabby and
huge, and looking blacker than the darkness, riding on a lean horse
slowly up to the inn. Whether his were the emeralds, or who he was,
or why he rode a lame horse on such a night, I did not stop to
discover, but went at once from the inn as he strode in his great
black riding coat up to the door.

And that was the last that was ever seen of the wayfarer; the
blacksmith, the carpenter or the postman's son.

THE OLD BROWN COAT

My friend, Mr. Douglas Ainslie, tells me that Sir James Barrie once
told him this story. The story, or rather the fragment, was as
follows.

A man strolling into an auction somewhere abroad, I think it must have
been France, for they bid in francs, found they were selling old
clothes. And following some idle whim he soon found himself bidding
for an old coat. A man bid against him, he bid aga