Presently Crieff’s face darkened, and, after looking keenly at his companion for a minute, he said, with a certain indignation-- ‘I’m afraid I shall have to give up Lagardère, after all. He’s been at it again.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I’m almost afraid to tell you, old fellow, for fear of arousing the slumbering lion. Yet I think it’s only fair, as I fancy you take an interest in the lady.’ ‘The lady?’ ‘Yes. You remember the young actress who appeared at the Parthenon this summer? Ah, I see you do. Well, of course you know that she retired into private life--married Forster, the merchant, a rich man and a thoroughly good fellow.’ ‘Yes, I heard of it, and--I was glad.’ ‘And so was I. She was too good for the stage. Well, now, I’m afraid there’s something unpleasant brewing. Just read this!’ As he spoke Crieff drew from his pocket several newspapers, and handed one, with a certain page turned down to indicate a paragraph, to Sutherland. The paper was the ‘Plain Speaker,’ edited by Lagardère. The paragraph was as follows:-- ‘Does a talented young actress, who recently left the stage, and, in the words of the immortal “Vilikens and his Dinah” (why not, on this occasion, read “Diana”?), married a rich merchant who in London did dwell, recollect a certain boarding school somewhere in France, an infatuated male teacher, and an elopement? It is said that Luna was once caught tripping, to the great amusement of Pan and the Satyrs. Luna was another name for Diana. _Verb. sap_.’ As he read, the lace of Sutherland grew black as night, his fist clenched, and he uttered an angry exclamation. ‘Do you understand the reference?’ asked Crieff. ‘I don’t, but I think there is no doubt as to whom it points. But Lagardère is fond of reiteration. Read a little lower down.’ Further down, after a number of jaunty and not too grammatical paragraphs on various topics of the day, came the following-- ‘When I was last in Paris, and the guest of Gambetta (it is a curious fact, by the way, that Gambetta has an exceedingly foul breath, and seldom or never changes his woollen shirt or washes his large feet), our talk turned on a volume which had just appeared, “Parfums de la Chair.” The title having a strong attraction for the not too clean Republican, he had bought the book. He admired it exceedingly. The affair is brought to my memory by the fact that the author is now in London. The other night, when we met at the house of a mutual friend, I asked him if he had ever been at Brussels, and visited professionally at a certain boarding school, and, if so, whether he had acquired there sufficient classical attainments to tell me if the goddess Diana had ever eloped with her music master, or appeared upon the public stage?’ Sutherland rose to his feet, crushing the paper between his clenched hands. ‘It is simply devilish,’ he cried. ‘O that I had the ruffian by the throat! I would choke him like a dog!’