of Members, and not so effectively performed. One
would think the baron had grown afraid of old Nevil! He had spoken as if
he were.

Cecil railed unreservedly to Lord Palmet against that woman 'Mistress
Culling,' as it pleased him to term her, and who could be offended by his
calling her so? His fine wit revelled in bestowing titles that were at
once batteries directed upon persons he hated, and entrenchments for
himself.

At four o'clock on a sultry afternoon he sat at table with his Bevisham
supporters, and pledged them correspondingly in English hotel champagne,
sherry and claret. At seven he was rid of them, but parched and heated,
as he deserved to be, he owned, for drinking the poison. It would be a
good subject for Parliament if he could get it up, he reflected.

'And now,' said he to Palmet, 'we might be crossing over to the Club if I
hadn't to go about that stupid business to Holdesbury to-morrow morning.
We shall miss the race, or, at least, the start.'

The idea struck him: 'Ten to one old Nevil 's with Shrapnel,' and no idea
could be more natural.

'We 'll call on Shrapnel,' said Palmet. 'We shall see Jenny Denham. He
gives her out as his niece. Whatever she is she's a brimming little
beauty. I assure you, Bask, you seldom see so pretty a girl.'

Wine, which has directed men's footsteps upon more marvellous adventures,
took them to a chemist's shop for a cooling effervescent draught, and
thence through the town to the address, furnished to them by the chemist,
of Dr. Shrapnel on the common.

Bad wine, which is responsible for the fate of half the dismal bodies
hanging from trees, weltering by rocks, grovelling and bleaching round
the bedabbled mouth of the poet's Cave of Despair, had rendered Captain
Baskelett's temper extremely irascible; so when he caught sight of Dr.
Shrapnel walling in his garden, and perceived him of a giant's height,
his eyes fastened on the writer of the abominable letter with an
exultation peculiar to men having a devil inside them that kicks to be
out. The sun was low, blazing among the thicker branches of the pollard
forest trees, and through sprays of hawthorn. Dr. Shrapnel stopped,
facing the visible master of men, at the end of his walk before he turned
his back to continue the exercise and some discourse he was holding aloud
either to the heavens or bands of invisible men.

'Ahem, Dr. Shrapnel!' He was accosted twice, the second time imperiously.

He saw two gentlemen