ourt, and longed for his type-writer, and his books, and his swivel
chair, and his favourite meerschaum.

"I should be less afraid to talk if there were not always the horrible
idea that he may take down what one says," thought Mrs. Selldon.

"I should be less bored if she would only be her natural self," reflected
the author. "And would not talk prim platitudes." (This was hard, for
he had talked nothing else himself.) "Does she think she is so
interesting that I am likely to study her for my next book?"

"Have you been abroad this summer?" inquired Mrs. Selldon, making another
spasmodic attempt at conversation.

"No, I detest travelling," replied Mark Shrewsbury. "When I need change
I just settle down in some quiet country district for a few
months--somewhere near Windsor, or Reigate, or Muddleton. There is
nothing to my mind like our English scenery."

"Oh, do you know Muddleton?" exclaimed Mrs. Selldon. "Is it not a
charming little place? I often stay in the neighbourhood with the Milton-
Cleaves."

"I know Milton-Cleave well," said the author. "A capital fellow, quite
the typical country gentleman."

"Is he not?" said Mrs. Selldon, much relieved to have found this subject
in common. "His wife is a great friend of mine; she is full of life and
energy, and does an immense amount of good. Did you say you had stayed
with them?"

"No, but last year I took a house in that neighbourhood for a few months;
a most charming little place it was, just fit for a lonely bachelor. I
dare say you remember it--Ivy Cottage, on the Newton Road."

"Did you stay there? Now what a curious coincidence! Only this morning
I heard from Mrs. Milton-Cleave that Ivy Cottage has been taken this
summer by a Mr. Sigismund Zaluski, a Polish merchant, who is doing untold
harm in the neighbourhood. He is a very clever, unscrupulous man, and
has managed to take in almost every one."

"Why, what is he? A swindler? Or a burglar in disguise, like the _House
on the Marsh_ fellow?" asked the author, with a little twinkle of
amusement in his face.

"Oh, much worse than that," said Mrs. Selldon, lowering her voice. "I
assure you, Mr. Shrewsbury, you would hardly credit the story if I were
to tell it you, it is really stranger than fiction." Mark Shrewsbury
pricked up his ears, he no longer felt bored, he began to think that,
after all, there might be some compensation for this wearisome dinner-
party. He was always glad to sei