and entered the vehicle, which clattered away
with him in the direction of Cromwell Road. Stopping at a particular
house in a side street leading from thence, he bade the cabman
wait,--and, ascending the steps, busied himself for some moments in
scribbling something rapidly in pencil on a leaf of his note-book by the
light of the hanging-lamp in the doorway. He then gave a loud knock, and
inquired of the servant who answered it--

"Is Mr. Snawley-Grubbs in?"

"Yes, sir,"--the reply came rather hesitatingly--"but he's having a
party to-night."

And, in fact, the scraping of violins and the shuffle of dancing feet
were distinctly audible overhead.

"Oh, well, just mention my name--Sir Francis Lennox. Say I will not
detain him more than five minutes."

He entered, and was ushered into a small ante-room while the maid went
to deliver her message. He caught sight of his own reflection in a round
mirror over the mantel-piece, and his face darkened as he saw a dull red
ridge across his forehead--the mark of Thelma's well-directed blow,--the
sign-manual of her scorn. A few minutes passed, and then there came in
to him a large man in an expensive dress-suit,--a man with a puffy, red,
Silenus-like countenance--no other than Mr. Snawley-Grubbs, who hailed
him with effusive cordiality.

"My dear, Sir Francis!" he said in a rich, thick, uncomfortable voice.
"This is an unexpected pleasure! Won't you come upstairs? My girls are
having a little informal dance--just among themselves and their own
young friends--quite simple,--in fact an unpretentious little affair!"
And he rubbed his fat hands, on which twinkled two or three large
diamond rings. "But we shall be charmed if you will join us!"

"Thanks, not this evening," returned Sir Francis. "It's rather too late.
I should not have intruded upon you at this hour--but I thought you
might possibly like this paragraph for the _Snake_."

And he held out with a careless air the paper on which he had scribbled
but a few minutes previously. Mr. Snawley-Grubbs smiled,--and fixed a
pair of elegant gold-rimmed eye-glasses on his inflamed crimson nose.

"I must tell you, though," he observed, before reading, "that it is too
late for this week, at any rate. We've gone to press already."

"Never mind!" returned Sir Francis indifferently. "Next week will do as
well."

And he furtively watched Mr. Snawley-Grubbs while he perused the
pencilled scrawl. That gentleman, however, as Editor an