Some Persons Unknown. Hornung Ernest William

his intention to recognise any former acquaintance, and seeing his young host take the cue from him in a way that struck him as at once manly and gentlemanly, Mr. Wolff Mason was now behaving in his own most charming fashion, which was very charming indeed to a young unknown beginner from a favourite old author whose name had been a household word for a quarter of a century at least. The beginner felt that if he had gauged the character of Wolff Mason correctly, when they first met at the sea-side, he would never have concealed the identity of Jack Overman with Evan Evans. But all thought of the old man's hardness upon a young one perished in an overwhelming sense of the great editor's kindness towards his utterly unknown contributor.

      "I'll stand here, if I may, with my back to your fire. I looked in about the very clever little story you sent me yesterday."

      The young author's face brightened till it quivered, but his words were all unworthy.

      "How awfully kind of you!"

      "Not at all, my dear sir. I was passing close to you, on my way home, and I was bothering about your story. I admire your work, but I don't altogether admire this story. My dear fellow, it ends too sadly altogether!"

      "No other ending was possible," the young man declared. "So I felt, and one must write as one feels."

      "Must one?" said the veteran, smiling blandly into the boyish earnest face. "Surely all things are possible to him who writes – unless, to be sure, he takes himself seriously!"

      This, however, was not very seriously said, for Wolff Mason had turned round and was peering at the photographs on and over the mantel-piece. Suddenly he pushed up his spectacles and thrust his head close to a framed portrait, with a piece of stamp-paper stuck upon the glass to hide the face, but with the name in print underneath upon the mount.

      "May I ask, young man," inquired Mr. Mason, as he favoured his contributor with a very comical stare, "why you have my photograph on the wall, in the first place; and, in the second, why the deuce you cover up my face?"

      "You must ask the man who lives with me. He may come in any moment now."

      "Did he do it?"

      "I'm ashamed to say he did."

      "Upon my word I should like to know why!"

      "Well, sir, he bought me your photograph when you were accepting my stories; and he hid your face because he said – "