Crispin! who ever heard of such a name? being the more singular as it had neither head nor tail. If he had been Henry Crispin, or Crispin Jones, people could have put up with the oddness of the sound; but Crispin, all alone by itself, sounded heathenish, to say the least of it. No one knew who Crispin was, or where he came from, for he had suddenly flashed like a meteor into literary London, two years previous, with a book of brilliant poems, which made a great success. For once the critics were unanimous in praising good work, and pronounced “The Roses of Shiraz, and Other Poems” to be the finest series of poetical Eastern tales since Lord Byron had enchanted the world with “The Giaour” and “The Bride of Abydos.” For the critics’ praise or blame Crispin seemed to care but little, nor did he satisfy the curiosity of those up to date people who desired to meet him. Sometimes he would appear in a Belgravian drawing-room, but only for a moment, and would then leave England for a tour in his beloved East. Just when the world would begin to forget him, he would suddenly reappear in society, and fascinate one and all by his charming manners. Handsome some he was not, being small and dark, but he was as lithe as a serpent, and his dark eyes flashed with the fierce fire of genius. All sorts of stories were told about him, and none of them were correct, though Mrs. Dengelton was ready to swear to the truth of at least half a dozen. In fact, he puzzled society very much, and, as society always takes to that which is not understandable, Crispin was quite the lion of the season. An article called “The Lord Byron of our days” appeared in a leading society paper, which retailed wonders about this unknown poet; but Crispin neither contradicted nor affirmed the truth of these statements, therefore became more of a puzzle than ever. He was a brilliant musician; he talked several languages, and seemed to have been all over the world; but beyond this he was a mystery. To no one, not even to Maurice, who was his closest friend, did he tell the story of his life, and even Mrs. Dengelton, who was an adept at finding out things people did not want known, could make nothing of him.