he wished to goodness I had had the gumption to put. Yet on the other hand he didn’t want to be told too much—it would spoil the fun of seeing what would come. The failure of _my_ fun was at the moment of our meeting not complete, but I saw it ahead, and Corvick saw that I saw it. I, on my side, saw likewise that one of the first things he would do would be to rush off with my story to Gwendolen. On the very day after my talk with him I was surprised by the receipt of a note from Hugh Vereker, to whom our encounter at Bridges had been recalled, as he mentioned, by his falling, in a magazine, on some article to which my signature was attached. “I read it with great pleasure,” he wrote, “and remembered under its influence our lively conversation by your bedroom fire. The consequence of this has been that I begin to measure the temerity of my having saddled you with a knowledge that you may find something of a burden. Now that the fit’s over I can’t imagine how I came to be moved so much beyond my wont. I had never before mentioned, no matter in what state of expansion, the fact of my little secret, and I shall never speak of that mystery again. I was accidentally so much more explicit with you than it had ever entered into my game to be, that I find this game—I mean the pleasure of playing it—suffers considerably. In short, if you can understand it, I’ve rather spoiled my sport. I really don’t want to give anybody what I believe you clever young men call the tip. That’s of course a selfish solicitude, and I name it to you for what it may be worth to you. If you’re disposed to humour me don’t repeat my revelation. Think me demented—it’s your right; but don’t tell anybody why.” The sequel to this communication was that as early on the morrow as I dared I drove straight to Mr. Vereker’s door. He occupied in those years one of the honest old houses in Kensington Square. He received me immediately, and as soon as I came in I saw I hadn’t lost my power to minister to his mirth. He laughed out at sight of my face, which doubtless expressed my perturbation. I had been indiscreet—my compunction was great. “I _have_ told somebody,” I panted, “and I’m sure that person will by this time have told somebody else! It’s a woman, into the bargain.” “The person you’ve told?” “No, the other person. I’m quite sure he must have told her.” “For all the good it will do her—or do _me_! A woman will never find out.” “No, but she’ll talk all over the place: she’ll do just what you don’t want.” Vereker thought a moment, but wasn’t so disconcerted as I had feared: he felt that if the harm was done it only served him right. “It doesn’t matter—don’t worry.” “I’ll do my best, I promise you, that your talk with me shall go no further.” “Very good; do what you can.” “In the meantime,” I pursued, “George Corvick’s possession of the tip may, on his part, really lead to something.” “That will be a brave day.”