'But,' he inquired, after reflection, 'how was it the man never wrote to ask why I sent no more work?' 'That asks for further confession. While at the seaside I wrote, in a disguised hand, a letter supposed to come from a brother of yours in which I said you were very ill and must cease your correspondence. Starkey hadn't the decency to reply, but if he had done so I should have got his letter at the post-office.' Mr. Wigmore looked troubled for a moment. However, this too was laughed away, and the pursuit of gentility went on as rigorously as ever. But Topham, musing over his good luck, thought with a shiver on how small an accident it had depended. Had Starkey been at home when the fruiterer called, he, it was plain, would have had the offer of this engagement. 'With the result that dear old Wigmore would have been bled for who knows how many years by a mere swindler. Whereas he is really being educated, and, for all I know, may some day adorn the Church of England.' Such thoughts are very consoling. A LODGER IN MAZE POND Harvey Munden had settled himself in a corner of the club smoking-room, with a cigar and a review. At eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning in August he might reasonably expect to be undisturbed. But behold, there entered a bore, a long-faced man with a yellow waistcoat, much dreaded by all the members; he stood a while at one of the tables, fingering newspapers and eyeing the solitary. Harvey heard a step, looked up, and shuddered. The bore began his attack in form; Harvey parried with as much resolution as his kindly nature permitted. 'You know that Dr. Shergold is dying?' fell casually from the imperturbable man. 'Dying?' Munden was startled into attention, and the full flow of gossip swept about him. Yes, the great Dr. Shergold lay dying; there were bulletins in the morning papers; it seemed unlikely that he would see another dawn. 'Who will benefit by his decease?' inquired the bore. 'His nephew, do you think?' 'Very possibly.' 'A remarkable man, that--a _most_ remarkable man. He was at Lady Teasdale's the other evening, and he talked a good deal. Upon my word, it reminded one of Coleridge, or Macaulay,--that kind of thing. Certainly most brilliant talk. I can't remember what it was all about--something literary. A sort of fantasia, don't you know. Wonderful eloquence. By the bye, I believe he is a great friend of yours?' 'Oh, we have known each other for a long time.' 'Somebody was saying that he had gone in for medicine--walking one of the hospitals--that kind of thing.' 'Yes, he's at Guy's.' To avoid infinite questioning, Harvey flung aside his review and went to glance at the _Times_. He read the news concerning the great physician. Then, as his pursuer drew near again, he hastily departed.