foolish as to pretend to _know_ anything, but to my eyes this picture
was nothing whatever but the Louvre's "Monna Lisa."

That being of course impossible, "What a wonderful copy!" I said.

"You may indeed say so," replied my host.

I looked at it more closely, even applying a pocket magnifying-glass.

"There was not a contemporary duplicate?" I inquired. "Could LEONARDO
have painted two?"

The Chowder King, or whatever he is called, smiled inscrutably. "No
doubt he _could_," he said. "But perhaps," he continued, "you have not
seen the Louvre picture since it was put back after the theft?"

"Not to examine it closely," I replied.

He laughed softly and led the way to the door.

Now what I want to know is, is it possible that--?

This terrible thought has been haunting me day and night.

I have asked many Americans to tell me about this collector and his
methods, but I can get no exact information. But it seems to be agreed
that he would stick at nothing to get a coveted work beneath his roof.
If I have many more such shocks as he gave me I shall give up paint
altogether and specialise in photography or the three-colour process.

Anyway, it is God's own country, and I will tell you my further
adventures as I have them. Tomorrow I am to attend a reception at the
White House to hear ELLA WHEELER WILCOX recite an Ode at the President.

Yours, X. Y. Z.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Mr. Green_. "IT DOESN'T SEEM TO ME TO LOOK QUITE RIGHT."

_Artist (engaged solely on account of shortage of labour)._ "WELL, SIR,
THE PANEL WAS A BIT ON THE LONG SIDE, BUT I THOUGHT I'D SPUN THE
LETTERING OUT VERY NICE."]

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

_Time_--NIGHT.

SCENE.--_A shell-pitted plain and a cavalry regiment under canvas
thereon. It is not yet "Lights out," and on the right hand the
semi-transparent tents and bivouacs glow like giant Chinese lanterns
inhabited by shadow figures. From an Officers' mess tent comes the
tinkle of a gramophone, rendering classics from "Keep Smiling." In a
bivouac an opposition mouth-organ saws at "The Rosary." On the left hand
is a dark mass of horses, picketed in parallel lines. They lounge, hips
drooping, heads low, in a pleasant after-dinner doze. The Guard lolls
against a post, lantern at his feet, droning a fitful accompaniment to
the distant mouth-organ. "The hours I spent wiv thee, dear 'eart,
are-Stan' still, Ginger--lik