"I don't know what his idea was. “Had the pleasure of dining with you at the ‘Ambassador’s’ one night, before the show, you know—last September I think it was. Your name?" "Owen Wood," replied the carpenter; "I've no reason to be ashamed of it. But—if you are a friend of Mr. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. The girl was pretty, and apparently a lady. His perseverance was amply rewarded. He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. We stopped for a moment to watch it, and almost immediately it was turned out. He closed the door. Always as black and bitter as gall. Mr. Had he been listening inside? ‘What is amiss?’ ‘That Frenchie, sir.
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