at the one lone
policeman who perambulates the district should tremble as he passed
the sinister gates of 'Undershaw'?

In a large room of this manor house, furnished with a luxuriant
elegance one would not have expected in a region so far from
humanising influences, sat two men. One was a giant in stature, whose
broad brow and smoothly shaven strong chin gave a look of
determination to his countenance, which was further enhanced by the
heavy black moustache which covered his upper lip. There was something
of the dragoon in his upright and independent bearing. He had, in
fact, taken part in more than one fiercely fought battle, and was a
member of several military clubs; but it was plain to be seen that his
ancestors had used war clubs, and had transmitted to him the physique
of a Hercules. One did not need to glance at the Christmas number of
the _Strand_, which he held in his hand, nor read the name printed
there in large letters, to know that he was face to face with Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle.

His guest, an older man, yet still in the prime of life, whose beard
was tinged with grey, was of less warlike bearing than the celebrated
novelist, belonging, as he evidently did, to the civil and not the
military section of life. He had about him the air of a prosperous man
of affairs, shrewd, good-natured, conciliatory, and these two
strongly contrasting personages are types of the men to whom England
owes her greatness. The reader of the Christmas number will very
probably feel disappointed when he finds, as he supposes, merely two
old friends sitting amicably in a country house after dinner. There
seems, to his jaded taste, no element of tragedy in such a situation.
These two men appear comfortable enough, and respectable enough. It is
true that there is whisky and soda at hand, and the box of cigars is
open, yet there are latent possibilities of passion under the most
placid natures, revealed only to writers of fiction in our halfpenny
Press. Let the reader wait, therefore, till he sees these two men
tried as by fire under a great temptation, and then let him say
whether even the probity of Sir George Newnes comes scathless from the
ordeal.

'Have you brought the swag, Sir George?' asked the novelist, with some
trace of anxiety in his voice.

'Yes,' replied the great publisher; 'but before proceeding to the
count would it not be wise to give orders that will insure our being
left undisturbed?'

'You are right,' repl