‘Yahoo lays claim to be the founder of the new system of journalism. From childhood upward he has aspired to be the social _chiffonnier_ of his age. He rakes for garbage in the filth of the street and in the sewers. Don’t you remember the verses MacAlpine wrote about him? Who prances on through Rotten Row Upon his golden-footed hay? Who prances, ambles, to and fro, Always gay? Who canters back along Mayfair, Spreading foul odours on the air, While all draw back to cry ‘Beware! The Scavenger of Society!’ But, for Heaven’s sake, my dear Sutherland, don’t take this affair too seriously. It is very offensive, but no worse than they write of everybody, from the Queen downwards; and I dare say it will do the lady in question no real harm.’ Sutherland was pacing up and down the room, a prey to the most violent agitation. He wheeled round suddenly, and faced his companion. ‘Even while we speak, perhaps the poisoned arrows have shot home. I can see the poor child--for she is still a child--sickening under the shameless attack. I picture to myself a broken heart, a ruined home, and then----’ ‘But suppose the insinuations are false?’ ‘They may be false in essence, while having a certain foundation in fact. Remember the lines you yourself quoted to me when Lagardère was our theme on a former occasion--I mean the lines about “A lie which is half a truth.” Oh, it is horrible! horrible! I would rather live among the foulest of savages than among your literary Yahoos, your so-called human beings.’ ***** Sutherland’s fears were right. When the poisoned arrows of slander and calumny are in the air, it is not long ere they reach their victim; and even as he spoke the cowardly work was complete. That afternoon Madeline drove down to the Grosvenor Library, of which she was a member, to change some books. When she had made her choice of some new literature, and handed it to her footman to place in her carriage, she went upstairs to the ladies’ reading-room on the second floor. The room was quite empty, and she strolled from table to table, turning over the new magazines, glancing at the journals. Presently she sat down, and began reading one of the theatrical papers, full of current gossip; for the old interest in histrionic affairs still clung to her, though she had abandoned all thoughts of returning to the stage. Placing the theatrical paper aside after a few minutes, she took the next journal which came to her hand. It was the ‘Whirligig.’ Idly and listlessly she began glancing over its imbecile tittle-tattle. Suddenly her gaze was riveted. She had come upon the paragraph beginning ‘My dear Hubert.’