I should think it was about last July that I first noticed that the children of my neighbourhood, with whom I have some small acquaintance, were endeavouring to assume a sinister aspect, and were wearing a cryptic button with a marked air of secrecy. When I came out for my morning walk the front garden would be animated with partially concealed children like the park in Mr. Kipling’s “They,” and though I have long realised that suburban front gardens do not lend themselves to the higher horticulture, I felt the natural embarrassment of the man who does not know whether he is expected to expel trespassers or welcome bashful visitors. In the circumstances I affected not to notice that the lilac was murmurous with ill-suppressed laughter and that the laurels were waving tumultuously; but it was hardly reassuring to discover on my return that a large red cross and the letters T. S. had been chalked on my gate by an unknown hand. For a moment I wondered whether the children had been reading “Sentimental Tommy,” for these were the initials and the methods of Mr. Barrie’s luckless hero, but the age and genial contempt for scholarship of the investing forces made this unlikely. On the fourth day, finding one of the band momentarily separated from her comrades, I ventured a _coup d’etat_. Pointing to the letters on her secret button, I remarked, “I see you belong to the Teapot Society.” “I don’t” she said indignantly; “it’s the Terror Society I belong to.” The secret was out, but I thought it wiser to conceal my triumph. Evidently, however, my discovery troubled the band, for next morning I received a _soi-disant_ anonymous letter of caution signed in full by all the members. I felt that the moment had arrived for definite action, especially as the cat who honours my house with his presence, and whose summer morning basking-place is in the front garden, had been much upset by this recurrent invasion of his privacy. I wrote a humble letter to the Society, apologising for my crimes and begging that I might be allowed to become a member, and placed it outside on the path. Five minutes later two very unembarrassed children appeared in my study, and introduced themselves as Captain and Secretary of the Terror Society. The Captain was very frank with me. “Of course, we didn’t really want to frighten you,” she said, “but we had to get you to become a member somehow or other.” “But I’m afraid I’m not much good at conspiracies,” I said modestly. “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” the Captain answered kindly. “You can be honourable Treasurer. You know we want a lot of things for our house.” I began to see what part I had in the scheme of things. “What are the rules of the Society?” I asked in all innocence, and thereby flung the Secretary into confusion.