"You see, I got the idea from a fairy-tale," said the Princess. "There, the doer evaded the conditions by being dragged at a horse's tail--I have guarded against this, so that now the thing is impossible." Again her mischievous laughter rang out through the misanthropic room. Lillie smiled, too. She felt certain Lord Silverdale would find no flaw in the Princess's armor, and she was exultant at so auspicious an accession. For the sake of formality, however, she told her that she would communicate her election by letter. The next day a telegram came to the Club. "_Compelled to withdraw candidature. Feat accomplished._ PRINCESS, HOTEL METROPOLE, BRIGHTON." Equally aghast and excited, Lillie wired back, "_How?_" and prepaid the reply. "_Lover happened to be here. Came up in lift as I was waiting to go down._" Still intensely piqued by curiosity and vexation, Lillie telegraphed. "_Which?_" "_Leave you to guess_," answered the electric current. CHAPTER VI. THE GRAMMAR OF LOVE. The _Moon_-man's name was Wilkins, and he did nine-tenths of the interviews in that model of the new journalism. Wilkins was the man to catch the weasel asleep, hit off his features with a kodak, and badger him the moment he awoke as to why he popped. Wilkins lived in a flat in Chancery Lane, and had his whiskey and his feet on the table when Silverdale turned the handle of the door in the gloaming. "What do you want?" said Wilkins gruffly. "I have come to ask you a few questions," said Silverdale politely. "But I don't know you, sir," said Wilkins stiffly. "Don't you see I'm busy?" "It is true I am a stranger, but remember, sir, I shall not be so when I leave. I just want to interview you about that paragraph in the _Moon_, stating----" "Look here!" roared Wilkins, letting his feet slide from the table with a crash. "Let me tell you, sir, I have no time to listen to your impertinence. My leisure is scant and valuable. I am a hard-worked man. I can't be pestered with questions from inquisitive busybodies. What next, sir? What I write in the _Moon_ is my business and nobody else's. Damn it all, sir, is there to be nothing private? Are you going to poke and pry into the concerns of the very journalist? No, sir, you have wasted your time as well as mine. We never allow the public to go behind what appears in our paper." "But this is a mere private curiosity--what you tell me shall never be published." "If it could be, I wouldn't tell it you. I never waste copy." "Tell me--I am willing to pay for the information--who wrote the paragraph about Clorinda Bell and the Old Maids' Club." "Go to the devil!" roared Wilkins.