A foreigner of distinction, owing to his official position, had been made an honorary member of a well-known London club. The number of permanent officials included in its membership was such that the club was a veritable Palace of Silence, and the foreigner, becoming depressed by the pervading atmosphere of gloom, one day ventured to remark to an acquaintance, a retired official of high rank: “You seem to have little conversation here.” “Meet me to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock in the smoking-room, and we will have a talk,” was the solemn reply. On the morrow the foreigner duly repaired to the appointed place and met his friend, who, settling himself upon a comfortable sofa, took out his watch, looked at it, and said: “I am sorry I can only give you twenty-five minutes.” For this space of time they talked, or rather the foreigner did, for the other uttered little but an occasional word. Precisely as the clock marked the appointed hour the latter rose, and, somewhat wearily saying good-bye, walked out of the building. Judge of the foreigner’s horror the next morning when, on opening his paper, he read that Sir —— ——, his friend of the day before, had fallen down dead in Pall Mall, stricken by cerebral collapse! The unwonted effort of the previous day’s conversation had been too much for the poor man. For years past he had been used to the almost unbroken silence of the club, which with undeviating regularity he was wont to frequent. The foreigner, who felt that he was practically guilty of homicide, declared he would speak no more in English clubs, and would take good care to warn his foreign friends against any similar murderous tactics should they come to England. In many clubs there is a mysterious member or two, about whom nothing seems to be known. No one can say who he is, what locality gave him birth, or what his available means of subsistence may be. He is the child of mystery, nor does he ever attempt to raise the veil, except when he vaguely alludes to “his people in the North”; but whether he means the North of England or the North of London no one whom he honours with his acquaintance is ever able to discover. Everything about such a man is a mystery, including the circumstances which led to his election. Whilst eccentricity, for the most part, takes the innocuous form of avoidance of society, there have been people who have suffered from a disquieting love of sociability. Such a one used to make a practice of speaking to all his fellow-members, whether he knew them or not. One day, however, finding himself seated opposite an old gentleman who was reading a newspaper, this individual entirely failed to obtain any answer at all to an incessant flow of talk, so, becoming angry, he at last kicked up his foot and sent the paper flying into its astonished reader’s face, the result being that the aggressor very shortly afterwards retired from the club.