In the New Year, Sellars, having spent a most enjoyable Christmas, and fortified both in spirits and body by the season’s jollity and good cheer, set to work to discover whether Miss Alma Buckley was still in the land of the living, and if so, where she was to be found. It has been said that nobody knew better how to set about getting information that he was in need of than this agreeable young man-about-town, who had never been credited by his ordinary acquaintances with ability beyond the average. Amongst his various clubs was a very unpretentious and Bohemian one called “The Strollers.” As its name implied, its members were mainly recruited from the theatrical profession, but it also admitted within its portals musicians, artists, journalists, authors, and a few people who were great admirers of the arts but did not practise any of them as a means of livelihood. If Miss Alma Buckley was still in the profession, he would find somebody here who knew her, or at any rate knew of her. We know that, strictly speaking, his proper _milieu_ was the fashionable world, his proper place for relaxation a club like White’s or Boodles’; but he was a young man of catholic tastes, and he was also entitled to call himself a journalist, if his activities in that profession were not very great. He was also very fond of people who “did something,” whether in music or art or literature. Therefore “The Strollers” suited him very well when he got a bit bored with exclusive society, and the rather banal talk of fashionable and semi-fashionable people. The subscription was very moderate, the entrance fee equally reasonable; he met there men who could talk well, a few quite brilliantly. Once a week during certain seasons they held an entertainment at which there was quite a respectable array of talent. To this very delightful little place he repaired one evening in search of information about Miss Alma Buckley. He inquired of two theatrical members, not of the very highest rank in their profession, but neither of these gentlemen had ever heard of the lady in question. They suggested that she might probably be on the provincial stage. The third time, however, he was more lucky. He came across a rather well-known music-hall artist, one Tom Codlin, who reddened his nose and leaned decidedly to the vulgar side on the boards, but who was a very quiet, decorous fellow off. He knew the name at once. “Alma Buckley, of course, known her since I first took up the business; must be a good ten years older than I am, I should say, makes up wonderfully, too. Saw her a few months ago in one of the Stein shows, and I was surprised to see how well she wore. No particular talent, no particular line, but generally gets an engagement, even when cleverer people are out.” “Has she ever been on the stage, the real stage, I mean?” asked young Sellars. Mr. Codlin shook his head. “Never. She started in the halls when quite a young girl and has stuck there ever since.”