Mr. J. Watson Crieff was assistant editor of the ‘Charing Cross Chronicle,’ an evening newspaper devoted to smart writing and the conservation of Church and State. He was a hard-working Scotchman, with no pretensions to literary attainments, but honourably connected with journalism in many ways. He was not a regular theatre-goer, still less a professed critic, but he sometimes, as on the present occasion, went to see a Shakespearian performance, and wrote about it afterwards honestly and well.

Passing along the Strand, he led his friend down a street running at right angles to the banks of the Thames, and soon entered the dingy building where the Harum-Scarums were accustomed to hold high festival. Proceeding upstairs, he entered a large room, at one end of which was a fire and a silver grill, presided over by a man-cook dressed in white. The room was becoming crowded by men of all degrees and ages, clean-shaven actors and hirsute journalists having the preponderance, and more than one greeted Crieff by name. He soon found a table, and ordered a plain supper for himself and friend. A loud chatter filled the air, and every one was talking of the débutante at the Parthenon. Among the other faces around him Sutherland at once recognised the very young gentleman and the lean man in the muffler whom he had heard discoursing at the theatre saloon.

‘It’s all right,’ said Crieff quietly. ‘The jury are bringing in an unanimous verdict of “successful.” I think I shall abuse her in the “Chronicle” just to show I’ve a mind of my own.’

‘If you do, I’ll call you out!’

‘There’s Abrahams the manager, button-holing Day of the “Sun,” and rolling his eyes in well-feigned enthusiasm. If you watch him, you’ll see him take the jury seriatim, and go through the same performance with every one of them. I thought so! He’s ordering champagne.’

‘Who is that gentleman?’ asked Sutherland, glancing towards the next table, where a little bald-headed man, surrounded by many admiring friends, was trifling with the cruet. Sutherland had recognised the individual who, in the saloon of the theatre, had introduced the little anecdote of his amours in Constantinople.

‘What, don’t you know him? That’s Lagardère, of the “Plain Speaker.”’

‘Indeed! A journal, I presume?’ ‘The journal of the period, based upon the new principle of extenuating nothing and setting down everything in malice. Lagardère can tell you to a nicety where La Perichole buys her false teeth, how much money Mrs. Harkaway Spangle pays her washerwoman weekly, and when any given leader of society is likely to pawn her diamonds or elope with her cook. You know Tennyson’s lines—


A lie which is all a lie can be met with and fought with outright,

But a lie which is half a truth is a harder matter to fight!


Lagardère has achieved the complete art of so mingling truth and falsehood together that it is impossible even for himself to distinguish the one from the other. What wine will you take?’

‘None. I am a water drinker.’

‘Still! Well, you thrive upon the crystal draught. Hallo, what’s Lagardère romancing about now?’

As he spoke the gentleman in question was leaning back in his chair, and in his peculiar drawl, to the edification of his immediate friends and admirers, speaking as follows:—

‘When I was with the army in Schleswig-Holstein, the Hereditary Duke of Schlagberg-Schwangau lived in the same hotel, and there was an English girl stopping with him, disguised as a young officer. The Duke laid a wager that this girl would smoke more cigars than I could in the course of twelve hours. Bismarck, who dropped in by accident, held the stakes. We began at six p.m. and smoked on till four in the morning, when the girl gave in and had to be carried off to bed. I mention the fact because she was exactly the same height as the girl who acted to-night.’

‘Impossible! Can’t be the same!’ said some one, feebly.

‘Can’t say, I’m sure. But it’s the same sort of face, and the girl, when you provided her with champagne, used to recite splendidly.’

‘How long was this ago, Lagardère?’ asked Crieff, leaning over towards the other table.

‘About twelve years. The date is fixed in my memory, because it was the year I fought the duel with the Austrian general at Vienna.’

Crieff smiled.

‘And if,’ he said, ‘we put down Miss Vere’s age at four-and-twenty (I believe she’s scarcely twenty-two), she must have been, at the period you name, exactly twelve years old.’

A general laugh greeted this retort; but the journalist was not at all disconcerted.

‘You see these sort of women are all so much alike,’ he drawled. ‘I’ve seen the same type of face in the harem at Stamboul, among the nautch-dancers of India, and at the Jardin Mabille.’

Sutherland, who had with difficulty kept his temper during this little scene, now turned his dusky eyes full on Lagardère.

‘What do you mean by these sort of women?’

Lagardère shrugged his shoulders.

‘What I meant was simply this, sir. Just as we recognise i............