ge of the investigations. He had also heard on the
other side of the screen, that Langholm was the novelist referred to in
a paragraph which had of course had a special interest for him; and, as
was only fair, Langholm was interrogated in his turn. What was less
fair, and indeed ungrateful in a marked degree, was the way in which the
original questioner parried all questions put to himself; and he very
soon left the club. On his way out, he went into the writing-room, and,
tearing into little pieces a letter which he had written that
afternoon, left the fragments behind him in the waste-paper basket.

His exit from the room was meanwhile producing its sequel in a little
incident which would have astonished Langholm considerably. Severino had
been playing for nearly an hour on end, had seemed thoroughly engrossed
in his own fascinating performance, and quite oblivious of the dining
and smoking going on around him according to the accepted ease and
freedom of the club. Yet no sooner was Langholm gone than the pianist
broke off abruptly and joined the group which the other had deserted.

"Who is that fellow?" said Severino, in English so perfect that the
slight Italian accent only added a charm to his gentle voice. "I did not
catch the name."

It was repeated, with such additions as may be fairly made behind a
man's back.

"A dashed good fellow, who writes dashed bad novels," was one of these.

"You forget!" said another. "He is the 'well-known novelist' who is
going the rounds as a neighbor and friend of Mrs.--"

Looks from Venn and the doctor cut short the speech, but not before its
import had come home to the young Italian, whose hollow cheeks flushed
a dusky brown, while his sunken eyes caught fire. In an instant he was
on his feet, with no attempt to hide his excitement, and still less to
mask the emotion that was its real name.

"He knows her, do you tell me? He knows Mrs. Minchin--"

"Or whatever her name is now; yes; so he says."

"And what is her name?"

"He won't say."

"Nor where she lives?"

"No."

"Then where does he live?"

"None of us know that either; he's the darkest horse in the club."

Venn agreed with this speaker, some little bitterness in his tone.
Another stood up for Langholm.

"We should be as dark," said he, "if we had married Gayety choristers,
and they had left us, and we went in dread of their return!"

They sum up the life tragedies pretty pithily, in these clubs.

"He w