More than a fortnight ago I fled from the London fog, with the result that it got thicker than ever about me in the minds of your readers and yourself! I determined during my absence to do what many people in the world of Art and _Letters_ have done before me, employ a "Ghost"--(my _first_ dealings with the supernatural, and probably my _last_!). I wired to one of the leading Sporting Journals for their most reliable Racing Ghost--he was busy watching _Nunthorpe_--(who is only the Ghost of what he was!)--and the Bogie understudy sent to me was a Parliamentary Reporter!--(hence the stilted style of the letter signed "POMPERSON." Heavens! what a name!)--I had five minutes to explain the situation to him before catching the _train de luxe_--(Lord ARTHUR had gone on with the luggage)--and I don't think he had the ghostliest idea of what I wanted!--the one point he grasped, was, that he was to use anonymous names--which he did with a vengeance!--My horror on reading his letter was such that I dropped all the money I had in my hand on the "red" instead of the "black"--and it won!--(I think I shall bring out a system based on "fright.") Of course all my friends thought Lord ARTHUR and I had quarrelled, and I was "off" with someone else!--What a fog. This idea being confirmed by the following week's letter, which was the well-meant but misdirected effort of my friend Lady HARRIETT ENTOUCAS, to whom I wired to "do something for me"--(she pretty nearly did for me altogether!)--there was nothing for it but to come home--where I am--Lord ARTHUR wanted to write you this week, but I thought one explanation at a time quite enough--so his shall follow--"if you want a thing done, do it yourself!"--so in future I will either be my own Ghost or have nothing to do with them! Yours apparitionally, LADY GAY. * * * * * ALL ROUND THE FAIR. NO. II. INSIDE THE "QUEEN'S GRAND COLLECTION OF MOVING WAXWORKS AND LIONS, AND MUSEUM DEPARTMENT OF FOREIGN WONDERS AND NOVELTIES." _The majority of the Public is still outside, listening open-mouthed to a comic dialogue between the Showman and a juvenile and irreverent Nigger. Those who have come in find that, with the exception of some particularly tame-looking murderers' heads in glazed pigeon-holes, a few limp effigies stuck up on rickety ledges, and an elderly Cart-horse in low spirits, there is little to see at present._ _Melia_ (_to JOE, as they inspect the Cart-horse._) This 'ere can't never be the live 'orse with five legs, as they said was to be seen inside! _Joe._ Theer ain't no other 'orse in 'ere, and why _shouldn't_ it be 'im, if that's all? _Melia._ Well, I don't make out no more'n _four_ legs to'un, nohow, myself. _Joe._ Don't ye be in sech a 'urry, now--the Show ain't _begun_ yet! [Illustration: "It's quoite tri-ew!"]