mber of the vilest daubs unhung,
painted in oil on Academy boards, and unframed. These were intended for
landscapes, as you could tell from the titles. The most expensive was
"Chingford Church," and it was marked 1s. 9d. The others ran from 6d. to
1s. 3d., and were mostly representations of Scotch scenery--a loch with
mountains in the background, with solid reflections in the water and a
tree in the foreground. Sometimes the tree would be in the background.
Then the loch would be in the foreground. Sky and water were intensely
blue in all. The name of the collection was "Original oil paintings done
by hand." Dust lay thick upon everything, as if carefully shoveled on;
and the proprietor looked as if he slept in his shop window at night
without taking his clothes off. He was a gaunt man with a red nose, long
but scanty black locks covered by a smoking cap, and a luxuriant black
mustache. He smoked a long clay pipe, and had the air of a broken-down
operatic villain.

"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Cantercot," he said, rubbing his hands, half
from cold, half from usage; "what have you brought me?"

"Nothing," said Denzil, "but if you will lend me a sovereign I'll do you
a stunner."

The operatic villain shook his locks, his eyes full of pawky cunning.
"If you did it after that it would be a stunner."

What the operatic villain did with these plots, and who bought them,
Cantercot never knew nor cared to know. Brains are cheap to-day, and
Denzil was glad enough to find a customer.

"Surely you've known me long enough to trust me," he cried.

"Trust is dead," said the operatic villain, puffing away.

"So is Queen Anne," cried the irritated poet. His eyes took a dangerous
hunted look. Money he must have. But the operatic villain was
inflexible. No plot, no supper.

Poor Denzil went out flaming. He knew not where to turn. Temporarily he
turned on his heel again and stared despairingly at the shop window.
Again he read the legend:

"PLOTS FOR SALE."

He stared so long at this that it lost its meaning. When the sense of
the words suddenly flashed upon him again, they bore a new significance.
He went in meekly, and borrowed fourpence of the operatic villain. Then
he took the 'bus for Scotland Yard. There was a not ill-looking servant
girl in the 'bus. The rhythm of the vehicle shaped itself into rhymes in
his brain. He forgot all about his situation and his object. He had
never really written an epic--except "Paradise L