wait
wistfully for his return. Some day perhaps the real Tom would come
back, and there would be wild wonderment among those simple farm folks
as to the identity of the shadowy guest they had harboured under their
roof. For his own fate he felt no immediate anxiety; three pounds goes
but little way in the world when there is nothing behind it, but to a
man who has counted his exchequer in pennies it seems a good
starting-point. Fortune had done him a whimsically kind turn when last
he trod these lanes as a hopeless adventurer, and there might yet be a
chance of his finding some work and making a fresh start; as he got
further from the farm his spirits rose higher. There was a sense of
relief in regaining once more his lost identity and ceasing to be the
uneasy ghost of another. He scarcely bothered to speculate about the
implacable enemy who had dropped from nowhere into his life; since that
life was now behind him one unreal item the more made little
difference. For the first time for many months he began to hum a
careless lighthearted refrain. Then there stepped out from the shadow
of an overhanging oak tree a man with a gun. There was no need to
wonder who he might be; the moonlight falling on his white set face
revealed a glare of human hate such as Stoner in the ups and downs of
his wanderings had never seen before. He sprang aside in a wild effort
to break through the hedge that bordered the lane, but the tough
branches held him fast. The hounds of Fate had waited for him in those
narrow lanes, and this time they were not to be denied.

THE RECESSIONAL

Clovis sat in the hottest zone but two of a Turkish bath, alternately
inert in statuesque contemplation and rapidly manoeuvring a
fountain-pen over the pages of a note-book.

"Don't interrupt me with your childish prattle," he observed to Bertie
van Tahn, who had slung himself languidly into a neighbouring chair and
looked conversationally inclined; "I'm writing deathless verse."

Bertie looked interested.

"I say, what a boon you would be to portrait painters if you really got
to be notorious as a poetry writer. If they couldn't get your likeness
hung in the Academy as 'Clovis Sangrail, Esq., at work on his latest
poem,' they could slip you in as a Study of the Nude or Orpheus
descending into Jermyn Street. They always complain that modern dress
handicaps them, whereas a towel and a fountain-pen--"

"It was Mrs. Packletide's suggestion t