His Lordship's Leopard: A Truthful Narration of Some Impossible Facts. David Dwight Wells

off his coat and slipping on a pair of straw cuffs, which was the chief reason why he always sported immaculate linen.

      "We're on the track of a big thing. Perhaps you don't know that the President has delivered an ultimatum, and that our Minister at Madrid has received his passports?"

      "Saw it on the bulletin-board as I came in," said his subordinate laconically.

      "Well, it's a foregone conclusion that the Spanish Legation will establish a secret service in this country, and the paper that shows it up will achieve the biggest scoop on record."

      "Naturally. But what then?"

      "Why, I give the detail to you. You don't seem to appreciate the situation, man. It's the chance of a lifetime."

      "Quite so," replied Marchmont, lighting a cigarette.

      "But you can't lose a minute."

      "Oh, yes, I can—two or three. Time for a smoke, and then I'll write you a first-column article that'll call for the biggest caps you have in stock."

      "But I—What the—Say, you know something!"

      "I know that the secret service has been organised, I know the organisers, and I know the password."

      Here Marchmont's chief became unquotable, lapsing into unlimited profanity from sheer joy and exultation.

      "I'll give you a rise if you pull this off!" he exclaimed, after hearing the recital of the events at the club. "May I be"—several things—"if I don't! Now what are you going to do about it?"

      "Suppose we inform the nearest police station, have the crowd arrested, and take all the glory ourselves."

      "Suppose we shut up shop and take a holiday," suggested the chief, with a wealth of scorn.

      "Well, what have you to propose?"

      "We must work the whole thing through our detective agency."

      "But we haven't a detective agency," objected Marchmont.

      "But we will have before sunset," said the chief. "There's O'Brien—"

      "Yes. Chucked from Pinkerton's force for habitual drunkenness," interjected his subordinate.

      "Just so," said the editor, "and anxious to get a job in consequence. He'll be only too glad to run the whole show for us. The city shall be watched, and the first time 'The Purple Kangaroo' is used in a suspicious sense we'll arrest the offenders, discover the plot, and the Daily Leader, as the defender of the nation and the people's bulwark, will increase its circulation a hundred thousand copies! It makes me dizzy to think of it! I tell you what it is, Marchmont, that subeditorship is still vacant, and if you put this through, the place is yours."

      The reporter grasped his chief's hand.

      "That's white of you, boss," he said, "and I'll do it no matter what it costs or who gets hurt in the process."

      "Right you are!" cried his employer. "The man who edits this paper has got to hustle. Now don't let the grass grow under your feet, and we'll have a drink to celebrate."

      When the chief offers to set up a sub it means business, and Marchmont was elated accordingly.

      At the Club the Bishop's son still contemplated the Avenue from the vantage-point of the most comfortable armchair the room possessed. Praise, he reflected, which was not intended for the author's ear was praise indeed. No man could tell to what it might lead. No one indeed, Cecil Banborough least of all, though he was destined to find out before he was many hours older; for down in the editorial sanctum of the Daily Leader O'Brien was being instructed:

      "And if you touch a drop during the next week," reiterated the chief, "I'll put a head on you!"

      "But supposin' this dago conspiracy should turn out to be a fake?" objected the Irishman.

      "Then," said the reporter with determination, "you'll have to hatch one yourself, and I'll discover it. But two things are certain. Something's got to be exposed, and I've got to get that editorship."

CHAPTER II.

       Table of Contents

IN WHICH CECIL BANBOROUGH ATTEMPTS TO DRIVE PUBLIC OPINION.

       Table of Contents

      It is a trifle chilly in the early morning, even by the first of May, and Cecil shivered slightly as he paced the rustic platform at Meadowbrook with his publisher and host of the night before.

      "You see," the great man was saying, "there's an etiquette about all these things. We can't advertise our publications in the elevated trains like tomato catsup or the latest thing in corsets. It's not dignified. The book must succeed, if at all, through the recognised channels of criticism and on its own merits. Of course it's a bad season. But once the war's well under way, people will give up newspapers and return to literature."

      "Meantime it wants a boom," contended the young Englishman, with an insistence that apparently jarred on his hearer, who answered shortly:

      "And that, Mr. Banborough, it is not in my power to give your book, or any other man's."

      There was an element of finality about this remark which seemed to preclude further conversation, and Cecil took refuge in the morning paper till the train pulled into the Grand Central Station, when the two men shook hands and parted hurriedly, the host on his daily rush to the office, the guest to saunter slowly up the long platform, turning over in his mind the problems suggested by his recent conversation.

      The busy life of the great terminus grated upon him, and that is perhaps the reason why his eye rested with a sense of relief on a little group of people who, like himself, seemed to have nothing particular to do. They were six in number, two ladies and four gentlemen, and stood quietly discussing some interesting problem, apparently unconscious of the hurrying crowds which were surging about them.

      Cecil approached them slowly, and was about to pass on when his attention and footsteps were suddenly arrested by hearing the younger of the two ladies remark in a plaintive voice:

      "But that doesn't help us to get any breakfast, Alvy."

      "No, or dinner either," added the elder lady.

      "Well," rejoined the gentleman addressed as "Alvy," who, in contrast to the frock coats and smart tailor-made gowns of his three companions, wore an outing suit, a short overcoat of box-cloth, a light, soft hat, and a rather pronounced four-in-hand tie. "Well, I'm hungry myself, as far as that goes."

      Banborough was astonished. These fashionably dressed people in need of a meal? Impossible! And yet—he turned to look at them again. No, they were not quite gentlefolk. There was something—He stumbled and nearly fell over a dress-suit case, evidently belonging to one of the party, and marked in large letters, "H. Tybalt Smith. A. BC Company."

      Actors, of course. That explained the situation—and the clothes. Another company gone to pieces, and its members landed penniless and in their costumes. It was too bad, and the young woman was so very good-looking. If only he had some legitimate excuse for going to their assistance.

      Suddenly he stood motionless, petrified. An idea had occurred to him, the boldness and originality of which fairly took his breath away. "The Purple Kangaroo" wanted advertising, and his publishers refused to help him. Well, why should he not advertise it himself? To think was to act. Already the company were starting in a listless, dispirited way towards the door. The Englishman summoned all his resolution to his aid, and, overcoming his insular reticence, approached the leader of the party, asking if he were Mr. Smith.

      "H. Tybalt Smith, at your service, sir," replied that portly and imposing individual.

      Cecil