out the spirit, and
Whibley loved him for it. The Count seemed as though he could never see
enough of Whibley after that evening, and the three of them--Whibley, the
Count, and "Maria"--would sit up half the night talking together.

The precise particulars I never heard. Whibley was always very reticent
on the matter. Whether "Maria" really did exist, and the Count
deliberately set to work to bamboozle her (she was fool enough for
anything), or whether she was a mere hallucination of Whibley's, and the
man tricked Whibley by "hypnotic suggestions" (as I believe it is
called), I am not prepared to say. The only thing certain is that
"Maria" convinced Whibley that the Count had discovered a secret gold
mine in Peru. She said she knew all about it, and counselled Whibley to
beg the Count to let him put a few thousands into the working of it.
"Maria," it appeared, had known the Count from his boyhood, and could
answer for it that he was the most honourable man in all South America.
Possibly enough he was.

The Count was astonished to find that Whibley knew all about his mine.
Eight thousand pounds was needed to start the workings, but he had not
mentioned it to any one, as he wanted to keep the whole thing to himself,
and thought he could save the money on his estates in Portugal. However,
to oblige "Maria," he would let Whibley supply the money. Whibley
supplied it--in cash, and no one has ever seen the Count since.

That broke up Whibley's faith in "Maria," and a sensible doctor, getting
hold of him threatened to prescribe a lunatic asylum for him if ever he
found him carrying on with any spirits again. That completed the cure.

THE MAN WHO WENT WRONG

I first met Jack Burridge nearly ten years ago on a certain North-country
race-course.

The saddling bell had just rung for the chief event of the day. I was
sauntering along with my hands in my pockets, more interested in the
crowd than in the race, when a sporting friend, crossing on his way to
the paddock, seized me by the arm and whispered hoarsely in my ear:--

"Put your shirt on Mrs. Waller."

"Put my--?" I began.

"Put your shirt on Mrs. Waller," he repeated still more impressively, and
disappeared in the throng.

I stared after him in blank amazement. Why should I put my shirt on Mrs.
Waller? Even if it would fit a lady. And how about myself?

I was passing the grand stand, and, glancing up, I saw "Mrs. Waller,
twelve to one," chalke