was
the choice brand of The Champion Arms; the cigar he had probably brought
with him from London. Nothing could be more different than his cynical
negligence from the dapper dryness of the young American; but something
in his pencil and open notebook, and perhaps in the expression of his
alert blue eye, caused Kidd to guess, correctly, that he was a brother
journalist.

"Could you do me the favour," asked Kidd, with the courtesy of his
nation, "of directing me to the Grey Cottage, where Mr Boulnois lives,
as I understand?"

"It's a few yards down the road," said the red-haired man, removing his
cigar; "I shall be passing it myself in a minute, but I'm going on to
Pendragon Park to try and see the fun."

"What is Pendragon Park?" asked Calhoun Kidd.

"Sir Claude Champion's place--haven't you come down for that, too?"
asked the other pressman, looking up. "You're a journalist, aren't you?"

"I have come to see Mr Boulnois," said Kidd.

"I've come to see Mrs Boulnois," replied the other. "But I shan't catch
her at home." And he laughed rather unpleasantly.

"Are you interested in Catastrophism?" asked the wondering Yankee.

"I'm interested in catastrophes; and there are going to be some,"
replied his companion gloomily. "Mine's a filthy trade, and I never
pretend it isn't."

With that he spat on the floor; yet somehow in the very act and instant
one could realize that the man had been brought up as a gentleman.

The American pressman considered him with more attention. His face was
pale and dissipated, with the promise of formidable passions yet to be
loosed; but it was a clever and sensitive face; his clothes were coarse
and careless, but he had a good seal ring on one of his long, thin
fingers. His name, which came out in the course of talk, was James
Dalroy; he was the son of a bankrupt Irish landlord, and attached to
a pink paper which he heartily despised, called Smart Society, in the
capacity of reporter and of something painfully like a spy.

Smart Society, I regret to say, felt none of that interest in Boulnois
on Darwin which was such a credit to the head and hearts of the Western
Sun. Dalroy had come down, it seemed, to snuff up the scent of a scandal
which might very well end in the Divorce Court, but which was at present
hovering between Grey Cottage and Pendragon Park.

Sir Claude Champion was known to the readers of the Western Sun as well
as Mr Boulnois. So were the Pope and the Derby Winner;