XII A Yellow Journalist Secures a Scoop but Fails to Get Away with it XIII Varney Meets His Enemy and is Disarmed XIV Conference between Mr. Hackley, the Dog Man, and Mr. Ryan, the Boss XV In which Varney Does Not Pay a Visit, but Receives One XVI Wherein Several Large Difficulties are Smoothed Away XVII A Little Luncheon Party on the Yacht "Cypriani" XVIII Captivating Mary XIX In which Mr. Higginson and the Sailing-Master Both Merit Punishment, and Both Escape it XX Varney, Having Embarked upon a Crime, Finds out that there is a Price to Pay XXI Mr. Ferris Stanhope Meets His Double; and Lets the Double Meet Everything Else XXII Relating How Varney Fails to Die; and Why Smith Remained in Hunston; and How a Reception is Planned for Mr. Higginson XXIII In which Varney, after all, Redeems His Promise CAPTIVATING MARY CARSTAIRS Captivating Mary Carstairs CHAPTER I THE CHIEF CONSPIRATOR SECURES A PAL In a rear room of a quaint little house uptown, a great bronzed-faced man sat at a piano, a dead pipe between his teeth, and absently played the most difficult of Beethoven's sonatas. Though he played it divinely, the three men who sat smoking and talking in a near-by corner paid not the least attention to him. The player, it seemed, did not expect them to: he paid very little attention himself. Next to the selection of members, that is, no doubt, the most highly prized thing about the Curzon Club: you are not expected to pay attention unless you want to. It is a sanctuary where no one can bore you, except yourself. The members have been chosen with this in mind, and not chosen carelessly. Lord Pembroke, who married a Philadelphian, is quoted as saying that the Curzon is the most democratic club in a too confoundedly democratic country. M. Arly, the editor, has told Paris that it is the most exclusive club in the world. Probably both were right. The electing board is the whole club, and a candidate is stone-dead at the first blackball; but no stigma attaches to him for that. Of course, it is a small club. Also, though money is the least of all passports there, it is a wealthy club. No stretch of the imagination could describe its dues as low. But through its sons of plutocracy, and their never-ending elation at finding themselves in, has arisen the Fund, by which poor but honest men can join, and do join, with never a thought of ways and means. Of these Herbert Horning, possibly the best-liked man in the club, who supported a large family off the funny department of a magazine, was one. He had spurned the suggestion when it was first made to him, and had reluctantly foregone his election; whereon Peter Maginnis had taken him aside, a dash of red in his ordinarily composed eye. "How much?" he demanded brutally. "How much for what?" "How much for you?" roared Peter. "How much must the club pay you to get you in?" Horning stared, pained.