How often, when the children have been happiest and the dance has been at its gayest, I have seen the organ-man fold music’s wings and move on to another pitch in search of pennies! I should like to think that it is a revolt against this degraded commercialism that inspires the protests of the critics of street music. The itinerant musician who believed in art for art’s sake would never move on so long as he had an appreciative audience; and sometimes, though I am afraid this would be the last straw to the “brain-workers,” he would arrive at two o’clock in the morning, and the children, roused from their sleep, would hear Pan piping to his moonlit flocks, and would believe that they were still in the pleasant country of dreams. A SECRET SOCIETY NOW that the Houndsditch affair has been laid aside by the man in the street and it is once more possible for a bearded Englishman to tread the pavements of London without reproach, I may perhaps venture to give some account of a secret society with which I have been intimately connected, without earning the reputation of a monger of sensations. Some four or five years ago I met a picturesque journalist who told me that he had once been at pains to worm out the secrets of an anarchist society in London, and had incorporated his discoveries in a volume so marvellous that no editor or publisher would believe it. I only remember one incident of all his wonderful adventures. He was led by an anarchist comrade into a small shop in the Strand, thence into a cellar, and thence along a series of passages and caverns that ultimately brought him out in Seven Dials! Even Mr. Chesterton’s detective-anarchists in the “Man who was Thursday” could not beat this. For my part I shall not try, but shall content myself with a straightforward narration of facts.