d Proprietor of
the _Snake_--a new, but highly successful weekly "society" journal, was
far too dignified and self-important to allow his countenance to betray
his feelings. He merely remarked, as he folded up the little slip very
carefully.

"Very smart! very smart, indeed! Authentic, of course?"

Sir Francis drew himself up haughtily. "You doubt my word?"

"Oh dear, no!" declared Mr. Snawley-Grubbs hastily, venturing to lay a
soothing hand on Sir Francis's shoulder. "Your position, and all that
sort of thing--Naturally you _must_ be able to secure correct
information. You can't help it! I assure you the _Snake_ is infinitely
obliged to you for a great many well-written and socially exciting
paragraphs. Only, you see, I myself should never have thought that so
extreme a follower of the exploded old doctrine of noblesse oblige, as
Sir Philip Bruce-Errington, would have started on such a new line of
action at all. But, of course, we are all mortal!" And he shook his
round thick head with leering sagacity. "Well!" he continued after a
pause. "This shall go in without fail next week, I promise you."

"You can send me a hundred copies of the issue," said Sir Francis,
taking up his hat to go. "I suppose you're not afraid of an action for
libel?"

Mr. Snawley-Grubbs laughed--nay, he roared,--the idea seemed so
exquisitely suited to his sense of humor.

"Afraid? My dear fellow, there's nothing I should like better! It would
establish the _Snake_, and make my fortune! I would even go to prison
with pleasure. Prison, for a first-class misdemeanant, as I should most
probably be termed, is perfectly endurable." He laughed again, and
escorted Sir Francis to the street-door, where he shook hands heartily.
"You are sure you won't come upstairs and join us? No? Ah, I see you
have a cab waiting. Good-night, good-night!"

And the Snawley-Grubbs door being closed upon him, Sir Francis
re-entered his cab, and was driven straight to his bachelor lodgings in
Piccadilly. He was in a better humor with himself now,--though he was
still angrily conscious of a smart throbbing across the eyes, where
Thelma's ringed hand had struck him. He found a brief note from Lady
Winsleigh awaiting him. It ran as follows:--

"You're playing a losing game this time,--she will believe nothing
without proofs--and even then it will be difficult. You had better drop
the pursuit, I fancy. For once a woman's reputation will escape you!"

He smiled bitterl