‘Bravo!’ he exclaimed; ‘that’s just it, to the very letter—tolerably plain and tolerably mystified. If this don’t turn out the best frolic of my life call me a chuckle‐headed fool. Get you the thread and wax ready, father!’ He stepped aside meanwhile, and took from his bosom a small package. Out of this he drew a faded piece of ribbon and cut off a small portion, putting it between his teeth, whilst he tied up and replaced the package again. He laid the piece he had severed on the table, and said, ‘Put that inside and seal up carefully.’ ‘There—that’s all right!’ said Cestus, thrusting the tablets into his breast. ‘Farewell, father!’ The scribe, who was already poring over his book, with his long peaked nose nearly touching the leaves, gave merely a rusty grunt as his customer stepped out into the passage. ‘Stay!’ cried Cestus, coming back, ‘Hark’ee, father!—would you not like to hear this pretty joke of mine?’ ‘Pish!’ snapped the scholar, with savage contempt; and with an indescribable series of shrugs of his lean body, he huddled himself irritably over his book. The Suburan’s guffaw shook the small dwelling as he turned away and proceeded to the nearest wine‐shop. Small as was the commencement, he had, nevertheless, entered on his campaign. So he drank his wine and water with unusual satisfaction and elation. CHAPTER XIV. The Suburan had the letter written and completed to his mind, and the next step was, of course, to have it delivered. For safety’s sake this was an arrangement to be carried out with due circumspection; and, as he already had an idea in his mind, he determined to put the missive away safely for a time, to see if the opportunity he hoped for would present itself. He came out of the wine‐shop, took a turn on the Marina, the favourite lounge of the townsfolk, and then turned homeward. The direct thoroughfare suited him no longer. Avoiding the street he made his way to the rear of the potter’s premises. He resolved there should be no awkward meeting of unwelcome faces if he could help it. As he drew near, passing through the irregular patches of garden and pasture, he heard the sound of horses’ feet. He looked toward the main road, already described as running nigh to Masthlion’s house, and saw a horseman garbed in military dress galloping at a swift pace northward. He was already at some distance, and a few yards further on his course the road dipped out of sight. At this point the rider suddenly reined up, waved something white, and then was gone. Cestus, with something like an oath of disappointment between his lips, hastened on a few steps, till the little workshop of Masthlion, with its smoking chimney, came into view. Then the struggling anathema rolled forth in full and hearty distinctness, for there, on the little low wall surrounding the garden‐patch of the potter, was Neæra, standing motionless, with her white answering signal in her down‐dropped hand, and