I saw him first, so to speak. Covers had been laid, as they say in country newspapers, for twenty-two persons. My wife, through the operation of an inscrutable but inexorable law, had been reft from my side, and was now periodically visible through a maze of table decorations, entertaining her host with what I could not help regarding as the most unfeeling vivacity and cheerfulness. I began to take an inventory of the company. We had been a little late in arriving--to be precise, the last--and I had had no opportunity of observing my fellow-guests. My own partner was a Mrs. Botley-Markham, an old acquaintance of mine. She combined short sight and an astonishingly treacherous memory for names and faces with a rooted conviction that the one infallible sign of good breeding is never to forget a name or a face. ("A truly _Royal_ attribute," she had once announced in my presence.) I was therefore agreeably surprised to find that she remembered not merely my face, but my name and _métier_. After putting me at my ease with a few kindly and encouraging remarks upon the subject of canals, she turned to her other neighbour. "Dear Sir Arthur," I heard her say, "this is indeed a pleasant surprise!" "Dear lady," replied a hearty voice, "the pleasure is entirely mine." I leaned carelessly forward to inspect the menu, and shot a sidelong glance in the direction of Sir Arthur. I was right. It was The Freak, in his most acquiescent mood. I wondered what his surname was, and whether he knew it. "We had such a teeny talk last time we met," continued Mrs. Botley-Markham. "Now we can chat as long as we please." Heaving a gentle sigh of relief, Mrs. Botley-Markham’s rightful dinner-partner helped himself to a double portion of the _entrée_ and set to work. The chat commenced forthwith. "And how is Gipsy?" enquired Mrs. Botley-Markham. "Gipsy," replied Sir Arthur without hesitation, "is top-hole." "How quaint and original you always are in your expressions!" cooed my neighbour. "But I am so glad to hear about Gipsy. Then the dear thing has quite recovered?" "Absolutely," replied Dicky courageously. Mrs. Botley-Markham cooed again. Then she enquired, confidentially:-- "Now tell me, what _was_ it?" "What _was_ it?" echoed The Freak cautiously. "Ah!" "Yes; what _was_ it?" pursued his interlocutor, much intrigued. "Don’t tell me they never found out!" "Never. At least," admitted The Freak guardedly, "not for some time." "Then they actually operated without being sure?" exclaimed Mrs. Botley-Markham, shuddering. Dicky, making up his arrears with a portion of quail, inclined his head gravely, and the quail reached its destination. "And when they did find out," pursued Mrs. Botley-Markham, clasping her hands--she had finished her quail--"what _was_ it? Tell me, dear Sir Arthur!" Sir Arthur cogitated for a moment, and then took the plunge. "It was clavicle," he said solemnly.