SCENE VII.--_The Drawing-room. It is after luncheon._ Mrs.

TOOVEY _is sitting knitting_.

_Mr. Toovey_ (_entering, in a frock-coat, carrying a tall hat_). Er--CORNELIA, my love, you don't happen to know where the--the latchkey is kept, do you?

_Mrs. Toovey._ The latchkey, THEOPHILUS! One has never been required in this house _yet_. What can you possibly want with a latchkey?

_Mr. Toov._ (_to himself_). These performances go on till a somewhat advanced hour, I've no doubt, and I might feel it my duty to stay as long as---- (_Aloud._) I--I only thought it would save PH[OE]BE sitting up for me, my dear.

_Mrs. Toov._ You need not trouble yourself about that, THEOPHILUS. I will sit up for you, if necessary.

_Mr. Toov._ (_quaking_). But you forget your Zenana Mission, my love; you will be out yourself this evening!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_severely_). I shall be back by a reasonable hour, Pa,--and so will _you_, I should hope.

_Mr. Toov._ I hope so, my love, I'm sure, but--but I may have a good deal to say to CHARLES, you know.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to herself_). There's some mystery about that wretched boy, I'm certain. If I could only find out what was in that letter. I wonder if it's in Pa's pocket--I'll soon see. (_Aloud._) Turn round, Pa. Ah, I _thought_ as much; one of your coat-tail buttons is as nearly off as it can be!

_Mr. Toov._ (_innocently_). Dear me! My Sunday coat, too. I never observed it. Could you just fasten it on a little more securely?

_Mrs. Toov._ If you take off your coat. I can't do it with you prancing about in front of me, Pa. (_Mr. T. takes off his coat._) Now, I can't have you in my drawing-room in your shirtsleeves--suppose somebody called! Go into your study and wait there till I've done. (_Mr. T. departs submissively._) Now if the letter isn't in one of these pockets, it must be in---- (_She discovers the envelope._) There it is. _Now_ I shall know what CHARLES---- I'm sure his poor dear mother would wish to be informed. (_She opens the letter._) "Eldorado Palace of Varieties. Admit Mr. TOOVEY and party to Box C. This portion to be retained." (_She tears off a perforated slip._) I _will_ retain it! So THEOPHILUS has been deceiving me--_this_ is his business with CHARLES! _This_ is why he kept that programme! And he's allowing himself to be misled by his own nephew! They're going to this music-hall to-night, together! He shall _not_ go--never while I--stop, let me think--yes, he _shall_ go--he shall fill up the measure of his iniquity, little dreaming that I have the clear proof of his deceit! (_She thrusts the slip she has torn off into her workbox, and replaces the envelope with the remainder of the order in the pocket._) There. He won't notice that anything is missing. He's coming back. I must control myself, or he will be on his guard.

[_She pretends to secure the button with unsteady fingers._

_Mr. Toov._ (_entering_). CORNELIA, my love, don't trouble to do more than is absolutely necessary to keep the button secure--because I'm rather in a hurry. It doesn't matter, so long as it looks respectable!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_with an effort to restrain her feelings_). I daresay it is quite respectable enough, Pa, for where you are going.

_Mr. Toov._ Quite, indeed, my dear. But it would never have done to go and call on CHARLES with a button off the back of my coat--no, no. It was fortunate you noticed it in time, my love.

_Mrs. Toov._ I hope it will prove so, THEOPHILUS. (_To herself._) And this monster of duplicity is Pa! Oh, I wish I could tell him what I thought of him, but not yet--we will have our reckoning later!

_Mr. Toov._ (_after putting on his coat_). Then I think I must be going. Any message I can take to CHARLES?

_Mrs. Toov._ Yes, tell him that I trust he will profit by his good Uncle's example, and that I expect him to dinner on Monday. I may require to have a serious talk with him myself, if your account of this evening is not perfectly satisfactory.

_Mr. Toov._ I'll tell him, my love, but there's no reason to make yourself uneasy about CHARLES--he'll behave himself--he'll behave himself. (_To himself, as he goes out._) I must go and see CHARLES now. Oh dear, I do feel so apprehensive about this visit to the Eldorado.--If I could put it off.--But I can't continue to hold those shares without some knowledge---- And Mr. CURPHEW made such a point of my going. No, I must go. I--I don't see how I can get out of it!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_alone_). There he goes, looking so meek and lamblike! Who would suspect, to see him, that that black coat of his was buttoned round a whited sepulchre? Oh, Pa, Pa! That after all these years of blameless life you should suddenly be seized with a depraved desire for unhallowed amusement like this! While I am at the CUMBERBATCHES, engaged in discussing the affairs of the Zenana Mission, you and CHARLES will be---- Stop. How do I know he is going with CHARLES at all? If he is capable of deceiving me in one respect, why not in all? (_She takes out the slip and looks at it._) Mr. TOOVEY and party! _What_ party? May not Pa have been leading a--a double life all these years for anything I can tell? He is going to the Eldorado to-night with _somebody_--that's clear. Who is it? I shall never be easy till I know. And why should I not? There's the meeting, though. I might have a headache. Yes, that will do. (_She goes to her writing-table._) No, I won't write. I can make some excuse to ELIZA when I see her. And instead of going to the CUMBERBATCHES this evening, I can easily slip up to Waterloo and ask my way to this place. There will be no difficulty in that. Yes, I will go, whatever it costs me. And when Pa goes into this Box C of his, he will find his "party" is larger than he expected!

END OF SCENE VII.

* * * * *

PLAYING THE DEUCE AT THE HAYMARKET.

Of course, to speak with theological accuracy, _The Tempter_, being the "very devil incarnate," ought to be "damned." That this has not been his fate at the Haymarket is owing to Mr. BEERBOHM TREE primarily, to his company secondarily, and to the author remotely. To treat in any fresh dramatic form the story of _Faust and Marguerite_, a dramatist must be the subject of a special and peculiar inspiration. Now what this play lacks is inspiration.

What in this piece ENRY HAUTHOR JONES mistook for the "divine afflatus" is mere long-windedness. His _Tempter_ may be an entertainer assuming various disguises, and more and more like himself on every occasion, but a real devil he is not, except so far as Mr. TREE with wonderful art makes him; and, even then, the question is forced upon us, would any devil with any sort of self-respect, pick up a cross-handled dagger just as if it were an ordinary walking-stick, and politely return it to its owner? This is the first time that a devil on the stage hasn't shuddered and grovelled at the sight of a cross-handle. Again, how far more effective would some of the supernatural movements of this irreclaimably wicked personage have been had they been performed by means of some clever arrangement of "wires," such as that with which Mlle. ÆNEA used to astonish the public? Where are the stage mechanists who assisted GEORGE CONQUEST, that unique representative of sprites and gnomes, who achieved success by "leaps and bounds?"

Fortunately the piece does not depend for its success on mere mechanism, but on the acting of Mr. TREE, which is in all respects admirable in its diabolical variety; much depends, too, on Mrs. TREE, who is charming and sympathetic in a small part. Mr. TERRY, who occasionally, in tone and look, reminds me of HENRY IRVING, contributes his share towards the general histrionic excellence, as also does Miss JULIA NEILSON, who in tone and action frequently makes me wish that once and for ever she would give up attempting an imitation of ELLEN TERRY. But be it said that the acting of this couple is remarkably good in the love scene, as it is also in the very trying death scene, which could have been so easily and so utterly ruined.

The author is at his best in his curt, cynical sentences. Epigrams are few and far between in the play, but what there are go to the devil, that is, are given to the "Old Gentleman," with the best possible result. ENRY HAUTHOR is at his worst in the long speeches, not one of which, no matter to whom it may fall, but would be the better for cutting. Of course, suggestions for abbreviating the _Tempter_'s part would not be favourably entertained by the principal actor, as, naturally enough, any Tree objects to being cut down: and as his personal success is too decided for him to be "cut up," the Tree will have to remain, though lopping and pruning would be advantageous to the growth and strength of this Tree now that it has assumed these proportions. And the moral? Well, GOETHE, I think, in the poem was a trifle hazy about the ultimate fate of his lovers; but in the opera there is no doubt about it. With _Marguerite_ it was "Here we go up, up, up," and with _Faust_ it was just the reverse: but the operatic _Faust_ will always "go down" when sung and played as it was this season at Covent Garden. I forget what BOÎTO does with his erring couple, but where Mr. JONES'S demon resembles BOÎTO'S, and also BYRON'S, Satan, is in his monologues addressed directly to the Supreme Being. But those Satans were Fallen Archangels of Heaven; this of 'ENRY HAUTHOR'S is a Fallen Angel of Islington. This illogical demon sneers at one of the characters for not using language sufficiently strong to express his feelings; yet when his own turn comes his blasphemy is vulgar, and so mild that not the sternest magistrate would like to fine him for it. And strange to say, in one passage (which most persons would have deemed objectionable, did it not come to them on the authority of the Lord Chamberlain's Theatrical Licensing office), the Prince of Darkness shows himself a gentleman curiously ignorant of such elementary Christian theology as he could have picked up from a penny catechism. How Mr. TREE was ever in-deuced to attempt the _Tempter_ by ENRY HAUTHOR, will remain a mystery to the end of the run, and if that should be in the far distant future, the mystery will be Tree-mendous, and absolutely impenetrable. The costumes are artistic and superb, the scenery effective, though the majestic proportions of Canterbury Cathedral are rather dwarfed by the imposing figure of the Very Deuce, who is "all over the place."

* * * * *

Morning Thought.

(_By a chilly Autumn Guest at a Country House._)

_GR-R-R-R!_ No fire in the grate--for our hostess is thrifty-- Although the thermometer stands below fifty! Well, I wish to be courteous and sober; But the _biggest_ of pests is that pig of a host-- In a climate like ours, too!--who makes it his boast That "he _never_ starts fires till October!"

* * * * *

A GOOD KICK-OFF.--The "Rugby" decision against "professional" football. Let us hope it will be followed by an equally energetic "kick-out" of the growing "rowdy" element in this popular, if somewhat over-praised, "National game." All good sportsmen long to see a "penalty kick" administered to blackguardism in the football field.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES.

(_Modern Teutonic Version._)

["My complaint being of a nervous character, I share the opinion of my doctor that, if I pass the winter in the midst of my accustomed surroundings and occupations, it will be the most likely means of promoting my recovery."--_Prince Bismarck's reply to the German Emperor's Letter._]

_Diogenes_ (_of Kissingen_) loquitur:--

_Only to leave me to my tub!_ Ha! had him _there_ I flatter me! Too late, my ALEXANDER, now to butter or to batter me! You "Dropped the Pilot"--with that youthful confidence that some adore-- The "whirligig of time" has turned; the "Pilot" drops the "Commodore."

A _fico_ for Imperial "Pots," and their young princely progenies. Belated condescension won't conciliate DIOGENES. Cynic and Conqueror exchange compliments Ciceronian, But--there's a sting in some smooth words, for a mouthing Macedonian.

Mine are not _sanitary_ "tubs," the Varzin, or the other one At Friedrichsruh, you hint. Oh get away, and do not bother one! I've got a "nervous system" now, and noisy, young, despotical, "Shock-headed Peters" worry one, when aged and neurotical.

Your castles, and your palaces, and things, in Central Germany, I "trample on"--like Plato's pride. Ha! does that make you squirm any? Confer with your Court Marshal, if you like; I only promise I'll Transfer my Tub--to Friedrichsruh, when up to change of domicile.

"How to command men" is my skill, as 'twas of him of Pontus, Sire, _You_ can't command such men as I just when you chance to want us, Sire! As soon as Doctor SCHWENINGER says he has no objection, Sire, I'll travel to another Tub--but not of your selection, Sire.

_Sings_--

'Midst castles and palaces though I _might_ roam, Be it ever so humble there's no place like home. The charm of the Tub seems to hallow me there, Which all Central Germany's castles can't share. Home! home! Sweet, sweet home! Though 'tis only a Tub, there is no place like home!

An exile from court, castles dazzle in vain. Oh! give me my Tub and I'll gladly remain. A proud ALEXANDER I'm sorry (!) to snub, But--keep your fine castles, leave me to my Tub! Home! home! Sweet, sweet home! Though you mayn't like its "climate," there's no place like home!

[_Left curled up in it._

* * * * *

"PAS MÊME ACADÉMICIEN!"

[ALBERT MOORE, the exquisite decorative painter, died on September 25, at the age of fifty-two, "without Academic honour."]

"LOVE is enough." Beauty, it seems, is not. And yet upon our land's artistic fame, It seems--does it not, Sirs?--a bitter blot That the official roll lacks this great name! No matter! The R. A., with tight-closed door, Hath less--of honour; English Art hath MOORE.

* * * * *

"Did you hear PADEREWSKI the pianist?" asked someone of our old friend Mrs. R. "Oh, yes," she replied; "I was most fortunate. He played for several hours at a friend's house, and he gave us the whole of his Repartee."

* * * * *

RIDDLE BY 'ARRY.--"Look 'ere, if you're speakin' of a young unmarried lady bein' rather 'uffy, what well-known river would you name?--Why, _'Miss is 'ippy'_, o' course."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

RIFLEMEN--"FORM!"

(_A new Volunteer Song, "in vulgar parlance," Brought up to date, after Lord Tennyson_.)

["It is not going too far to say that thousands of men best fitted, physically and morally, to serve as officers or in the ranks, hold aloof from the Volunteers, because they are keenly alive to inefficiency of the average Volunteer. In vulgar parlance they look upon Volunteering as 'bad form.'"--_The Times._]

There is a sound that must terribly jar On the ears of the West in our finical day; 'Tisn't a sound of battle and war, But of something much worse in its "vulgar" way. Storm's warm about Volunteer "form," Ready, be ready against that storm! "Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!"

Be not deaf to the sound that warns! What? "Bad form!"--that's a prig's last plea. Are figs of thistles? or grapes of thorns? How can W. feel with E. C.? "Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!" Ready to meet "Sassiety's" storm! Riflemen, Riflemen, shun "bad form!"

Reform your "form"! Abide nothing "low"! Look to yon butts, and take good aims! But better a miss, or a magpie or so, Than that bad, bad form which "Sassiety" shames. Storm's warm about Volunteer "form," Ready, be ready against that storm! Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen--"Form!!!"

For "form" be ready to do or die "Form," in "Sassiety's" name, and the QUEEN'S! "In vulgar parlance" "good form"'s the cry-- Though only a fribble knows what it means. But "Form!" "Form!" Riflemen, "Form!" Ready, be ready to meet the storm Against the Riflemen's "shocking bad form!"

* * * * *

THE LONDON SCHOOL BOARD VADE MECUM.

_Question._ What are the functions of the School Board?

_Answer._ To protest against the conduct of the Educational Department.

_Q._ In this protest has the Board the sympathy of the public?

_A._ Unquestionably; because the conduct of the Educational Department is calculated to send up rates.

_Q._ But does not the Department look after the sanitary side of the matter?

_A._ Perhaps so; but sanitation is too expensive a matter to be treated without the maturest consideration.

_Q._ Are the recommendations of the Department unreasonable?

_A._ Very. The Board is required to make the most costly alterations in buildings that have already eaten up a large sum of money, and should not consume a penny more.

_Q._ But are not the suggested improvements ones that would be accepted nowadays in any new design?

_A._ Certainly, but then their adoption would be the cause of little or no expense.

_Q._ Then should science stop still until the rates become abated?

_A._ That would be the practical course for science to pursue.

_Q._ But leaving grievances out of the question, what can be said about education?

_A._ That is a matter of secondary importance, when compared with the latest sanitary developments.

_Q._ But how about the children? Have they been educated? What can be said about them?

_A._ Nothing. So far as the School Board is concerned, the question of education in general is absolutely of secondary importance.

_Q._ Then the career of a child need not be considered nor watched?

_A._ Of course not. The sole means suggested for teaching a child is to squabble with the Government and to more or less ignore the requirements of the schoolmaster.

* * * * *

* * * * *

BISHOP BOBADIL.

["As to the course which the English Government should take in this matter, he was in favour of their acting on the principles enunciated in the Sermon on the Mount; but when it was found that a contrary course was necessary, then they must drop the sermon and have recourse to the sword."--The Bishop of DERRY, in Westminster Abbey, on the subject of Mashonaland.]

Of old the bully swaggered free, He recked not how the fight arose; He wore his warlike panoply, A hireling and a man of blows.

He knew no mercy, was not meek (The meek are blessèd, said the Lord); If one should smite him on the cheek, He turned, but turned to draw his sword.

He trod the weaker in the mire, Nor stayed from blood his mailèd hand, And tramped in fury and in fire Through many a devastated land.

I blame him not, it was his trade; Though small his care for wrong or right, At least he fought himself, nor stayed At home to bid the others fight.

Long since we've placed him on the shelf; Behold instead, his crosier drawn, Within the sacred Minster's self A bully blustering in lawn.

A broad-brimmed stirrer up of strife, "I hold," he cries, "of small account His sense who stoops to base his life Upon the Sermon on the Mount.

"That is, if unprepared to strike. Some help that Sermon _may_ afford. You suit yourselves, and, when you like, You drop it and you draw the sword."

Go to, you loud and foolish priest, Nor scorn the precepts you should keep. Still is it true that, west or east, The wolves are sometimes clothed like sheep.

And here ('twas thus in ancient days) False prophets shame the Master still. And congregations chant the praise Of blatant Bishop BOBADIL.

* * * * *

WOODMEN, SPARE THOSE TREES!

_New (New Forest) Version._

[Mr. AUBERON HERBERT says "the rapacious and spendthrift" woodmen of the Crown have recently felled two hundred oaks in the New Forest.]

Woodmen, spare those trees! You're playing up rare jokes In felling, at your ease, Hundreds of British oaks. We'd ax you stay your axe. Come! no official rot! Or _Punch_'s wrath may wax, And then--you'll get it hot.

Those old familiar trees Are glory and renown. Don't think your business, _please_, Is just to hew them down! We _ask_ you, for the nonce. If such appeal is vain, We'll bid you, sharp, at once, "Cut"--and _don't_ come again!

* * * * *

"GOOD SIR JOHN!"

(_To Sir John Gilbert, R.A., on his receiving the Freedom of the City._

_By an Old Boy._)

Good Black (and White) Knight, Our youth's joint delight, With that other Black Knight, dear Sir WALTER'S (Whom you pictured well), Ancient memories swell, Till language, in praising you, falters. You drew, with such dash, _All_ our heroes; they flash On our memories. Ah, we thanked _you_ so For Dons, Rosinantes, And Sanchos (CERVANTES!) "Leather-Stocking," and Robinson Crusoe. Our fancies still carry Your (SHAKSPEARE'S) King Harry, We know our own boyhood's sound slumbers Were haunted by Pucks, Robin Hoods, Friar Tucks, And scenes from your brave Christmas Numbers. God bless you, Sir JOHN, For your Knight and your Don, Who moved our youth's fervour and pity! Sure every Old Boy Hopes you long may enjoy The freedom (and health) of our City!

* * * * *

RIDDLE FOR THE GREAT REALIST.

_Q._ When is a sailor like a French journalist?

_A._ When he has to "sign articles."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE ADVENTURES OF PICKLOCK HOLES.

(_By Cunnin Toil._)

No. V.--THE HUNGARIAN DIAMOND.

Everybody must remember the apparently causeless panic that seized the various European governments only a few years ago. It was the dead season. Members of Parliament were all disporting themselves on the various grouse-moors which are specially reserved for that august legislative body in order that there may be no lack of accuracy in the articles of those who imagine that the 12th of August brings to every M.P. a yearning for the scent of heather and the sound of breech-loading guns. Suddenly, and without any warning, a great fear spread through Europe. Nobody seemed able to state precisely how it began. There were, of course, some who attributed it to an after-dinner speech made by the German Emperor at the annual banquet of the Blue Bösewitzers, the famous Cuirassier regiment of which the Grand Duke of SCHNUPFTUCHSTEIN is the honorary commanding officer. Others again saw in it the influence of M. PAUL DEROULÈDE, while yet a third party attributed it with an equal assumption of certainty to the fact that Austria had recently forbidden the import of Servian pigs. They were all wrong. The time has come when the truth must be known. The story I am about to tell will show my extraordinary friend, PICKLOCK HOLES, on an even higher pinnacle of unmatchable acumen than that which fame has hitherto assigned to him. He may be vexed when he reads my narrative of his triumphs, for he is as modest as he is inductive; but I am determined that, at whatever cost, the story shall be made public.

It was on one of those delightful evenings for which our English summer is famous, that HOLES and I were as usual sitting together and conversing as to the best methods of inferring an Archbishop from a hat-band and a Commander-in-Chief from a penny-whistle. I had put forward several plans which appeared to me to be satisfactory, but HOLES had scouted them one after another with a cold impassivity which had not failed to impress me, accustomed though I was to the great man's exhibition of it.

"Here," said HOLES, eventually, "are the necessary steps. Hat-band, band-master, master-mind, mind-your-eye, eye-ball, ball-bearing, bear-leader, Leda and the Swan, swan-bill, bill-post, post-cart, cart-road, roadway, Weybridge, bridge-arch, arch-bishop. The inference of a Commander-in-Chief is even easier. You have only to assume that a penny-whistle has been found lying on the Horse-Guards' Parade by the Colonel of the Scots Guards, and carried by him to the office of the Secretary of State for War. Thereupon you subdivide the number of drummer-boys in a regiment of Goorkhas by the capital value of a sergeant's retiring pension, and----"

But the rest of this marvellous piece of concise reasoning must remain for ever a secret, for at this moment a bugle-call disturbed the stillness of the summer night, and HOLES immediately paused.

"What can that mean?" I asked, in some alarm, for Camberwell (our meeting place) is an essentially unmilitary district, and I could not account for this strange and awe-inspiring musical demonstration.

"Hush," said HOLES, with perfect composure; "it is the agreed signal. Listen. The great Samovar diamond, the most brilliant jewel in the turquoise crown of Hungary, has been lost. The Emperor of AUSTRIA is in despair. Next week he is due at Pesth, but he cannot appear before the fierce and haughty Magyars in a crown deprived of the decoration that all Hungary looks upon as symbolical of the national existence. A riot in Pesth at this moment would shake the Austro-Hungarian empire to its foundations. With it the Triple Alliance would crumble into dust, and the peace of Europe would not be worth an hour's purchase. It is, therefore, imperative that before the dawn of next Monday the diamond should be restored to its wonted setting."

"My dear HOLES," I said, "this is more terrible than I thought. Have they appealed to you, as usual, after exhausting all the native talent?"

"My dear POTSON," replied my friend, "you ask too much. Let it suffice that I have been consulted, and that the determination of the question of peace or war lies in these hands." And with these words the arch-detective spread before my eyes those long, sinewy, and meditative fingers which had so often excited my admiration.

Our preparations for departure to Hungary were soon made. I hardly know why I accompanied HOLES. It seemed somehow to be the usual thing that I should be present at all his feats. I thought he looked for my company, and though his undemonstrative nature would never have suffered him to betray any annoyance had I remained absent, I judged it best not to disturb the even current of his investigations by departing from established precedent. I therefore departed from London--my only alternative. Just as we were setting out, HOLES stopped me with a warning gesture.

"Have you brought the clue with you?" he asked.

"What clue?"

"Oh," he answered, rather testily, "any clue you like, so long as it's a clue. A torn scrap of paper with writing on it, a foot-print in the mud, a broken chair, a soiled overcoat--it really doesn't matter what it is, but a clue of some kind we must have."

"Of course, of course," I said, in soothing tones. "How stupid of me to forget it. Will this do?" I continued, picking up a piece of faded green ribbon which happened to be lying on the pavement.

"The very thing," said HOLES, pocketing it, and so we started. Our first visit on arriving at Pesth was to the Emperor-King, who was living _incognito_ in a small back alley of the Hungarian capital. We cheered the monarch's heart, and proceeded to call on the leader of the Opposition in the Hungarian Diet. He was a stern man of some fifty summers, dressed in the national costume. We found him at supper. HOLES was the first to speak. "Sir," he said, "resistance is useless. Your schemes have been discovered. All that is left for you is to throw yourself upon the mercy of your King."

The rage of the Magyar was fearful to witness. HOLES continued, inexorably:--"This piece of green ribbon matches the colour of your Sunday tunic. Can you swear it has not been torn from the lining? You cannot. I thought so. Know then that wrapped in this ribbon was found the great Samovar diamond, and that you, you alone, were concerned in the robbery."

At this moment the police broke into the room.

"Remove his Excellency," said HOLES, "and let him forthwith expiate his crimes upon the scaffold."

"But," I ventured to interpose, "where is the diamond? Unless you restore that----"

"POTSON," whispered HOLES, almost fiercely, "do not be a fool."

As he said this, the door once again opened, and the Emperor-King entered the room, bearing on his head the turquoise crown, in the centre of which sparkled the great Samovar, "the moon of brilliancy," as the Hungarian poets love to call it. The Emperor approached the marvellous detective. "Pardon me," he said, "for troubling you. I have just found the missing stone under my pillow."

"Where," said HOLES, "I was about to tell your Majesty that you would find it."

"Thank you," said his Majesty, "for restoring to me a valued possession and ridding me of a knave about whom I have long had my suspicions." The conclusion of this speech was greeted with loud "_Eljens_," the Hungarian national shout, in the midst of which we took our leave. That is the true story of how the peace of Europe was preserved by my wonderful friend.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Note:

Sundry damaged or missing punctuation has been repaired.

Page 165: 'then' corrected to 'than'.

"But better a miss, or a magpie or so, Than that bad, bad form which "Sassiety" shames."