they were all geographically distributed over Greater
London.

"She was sitting on a seat in the Bois the other
afternoon, after lunching at the Roumanian Legation."

Whatever the story gained in picturesqueness from
the dragging-in of diplomatic "atmosphere," it ceased

from that moment to command any acceptance as a record of
current events. Gorworth had warned his neophyte that

this would be the case, but the traditionalenthusiasm of
the neophyte had triumphed over discretion.

"She was feeling rather drowsy, the effect probably
of the champagne, which she's not in the habit of taking

in the middle of the day."
A subdued murmur of admiration went round the

company. Blenkinthrope's aunts were not used to taking
champagne in the middle of the year, regarding it

exclusively as a Christmas and New Year accessory.
"Presently a rather portly gentleman passed by her

seat and paused an instant to light a cigar. At that
moment a youngish man came up behind him, drew the blade

from a swordstick, and stabbed him half a dozen times
through and through. 'Scoundrel,' he cried to his

victim, 'you do not know me. My name is Henri Leturc.'
The elder man wiped away some of the blood that was

spattering his clothes, turned to his assailant, and
said: `And since when has an attempted assassination" target="_blank" title="n.暗杀；暗杀事件">assassination been

considered an introduction?' Then he finished lighting
his cigar and walked away. My aunt had intended

screaming for the police, but seeing the indifference
with which the principal in the affair treated the matter

she felt that it would be an impertinence on her part to
interfere. Of course I need hardly say she put the whole

thing down to the effects of a warm, drowsy afternoon and
the Legation champagne. Now comes the astonishing part

of my story. A fortnight later a bank manager was
stabbed to death with a swordstick in that very part of

the Bois. His assassin was the son of a charwoman
formerly working at the bank, who had been dismissed from

her job by the manager on account of chronic
intemperance. His name was Henri Leturc."

From that moment Blenkinthrope was tacitly accepted
as the Munchausen of the party. No effort was spared to

draw him out from day to day in the exercise of testing
their powers of credulity, and Blenkinthrope, in the

false security of an assured and receptive audience,
waxed industrious and ingenious in supplying the demand

for marvels. Duckby's satirical story of a tame otter
that had a tank in the garden to swim in, and whined

restlessly whenever the water-rate was overdue, was
scarcely an unfair parody of some of Blenkinthrope's

wilder efforts. And then one day came Nemesis.
Returning to his villa one evening Blenkinthrope

found his wife sitting in front of a pack of cards, which
she was scrutinising with unusual concentration.

"The same old patience-game?" he asked carelessly.
"No, dear; this is the Death's Head patience, the

most difficult of them all. I've never got it to work
out, and somehow I should be rather frightened if I did.

Mother only got it out once in her life; she was afraid
of it, too. Her great-aunt had done it once and fallen

dead from excitement the next moment, and mother always
had a feeling that she would die if she ever got it out.

She died the same night that she did it. She was in bad
health at the time, certainly, but it was a strange

coincidence."
"Don't do it if it frightens you," was

Blenkinthrope's practical comment as he left the room. A
few minutes later his wife called to him.

"John, it gave me such a turn, I nearly got it out.
Only the five of diamonds held me up at the end. I

really thought I'd done it."
"Why, you can do it," said Blenkinthrope, who had

come back to the room; "if you shift the eight of clubs
on to that open nine the five can be moved on to the

six."
His wife made the suggested move with hasty,

trembling fingers, and piled the outstanding cards on to
their respective packs. Then she followed the example of

her mother and great-grand-aunt.
Blenkinthrope had been genuinely fond of his wife,

but in the midst of his bereavement one dominant thought
obtruded itself. Something sensational and real had at

last come into his life; no longer was it a grey,
colourless record. The headlines which might

appropriately describe his domestictragedy kept shaping
themselves in his brain. "Inherited presentiment comes

true." "The Death's Head patience: Card-game that
justified its sinister name in three generations." He

wrote out a full story of the fatal occurrence for the
ESSEX VEDETTE, the editor of which was a friend of his,

and to another friend he gave a condensed account, to be
taken up to the office of one of the halfpenny dailies.

But in both cases his reputation as a romancer stood
fatally in the way of the fulfilment of his ambitions.

"Not the right thing to be Munchausening in a time of
sorrow" agreed his friends among themselves, and a brief

note of regret at the "sudden death of the wife of our
respected neighbour, Mr. John Blenkinthrope, from heart

failure," appearing in the news column of the local paper
was the forlornoutcome of his visions of widespread

publicity.
Blenkinthrope shrank from the society of his

erstwhile travelling companions and took to travelling
townwards by an earlier train. He sometimes tries to

enlist the sympathy and attention of a chance
acquaintance in details of the whistling prowess of his

best canary or the dimensions of his largest beetroot; he
scarcely recognises himself as the man who was once

spoken about and pointed out as the owner of the Seventh
Pullet.

THE BLIND SPOT
"YOU'VE just come back from Adelaide's funeral,

haven't you?" said Sir Lulworth to his nephew; "I suppose
it was very like most other funerals?"

"I'll tell you all about it at lunch," said Egbert.
"You'll do nothing of the sort. It wouldn't be

respectful either to your great-aunt's memory or to the
lunch. We begin with Spanish olives, then a borshch,

then more olives and a bird of some kind, and a rather
enticing Rhenish wine, not at all expensive as wines go

in this country, but still quite laudable in its way.
Now there's absolutely nothing in that menu that

harmonises in the least with the subject of your great-
aunt Adelaide or her funeral. She was a charming woman,

and quite as intelligent as she had any need to be, but
somehow she always reminded me of an English cook's idea

of a Madras curry."
"She used to say you were frivolous," said Egbert.