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the name of the writer who has libelled her.'

      'On the press,' said Mr. Licquorish, repeating some phrases which he kept for such an occasion as the present, 'we have a duty to the public to perform. When books are sent us for review we never allow prejudice or private considerations to warp our judgment. The Mirror has in consequence a reputation for honesty that some papers do not possess. Now I distinctly remember that this book, The Vale of Tears– '

      'The Scorn of Scorns.'

      'I mean The Scorn of Scorns, was carefully considered by the expert to whom it was given for review. Being honestly of opinion that the treatise – '

      'It is a novel.'

      'That the novel is worthless, we had to say so. Had it been clever, we should – '

      Mr. Licquorish paused, reading in the other's face that there was something wrong. Greybrooke had concluded that the editor had forgotten about the first review.

      'Can you show me a copy of the Mirror,' the captain asked, 'for October 3rd?'

      Mr. Licquorish turned to the file, and Greybrooke looked over his shoulder.

      'There it is!' cried the captain indignantly.

      They read the original notice together. It said that, if The Scorn of Scorns was written by a new writer, his next story would be looked for with great interest. It 'could not refrain from quoting the following exquisitely tender passage.' It found the earlier pages 'as refreshing as a spring morning,' and the closing chapters were a triumph of 'the art that conceals art.'

      'Well, what have you to say to that?' asked Greybrooke fiercely.

      'A mistake,' said the editor blandly. 'Such things do happen occasionally.'

      'You shall make reparation for it!'

      'Hum,' said Mr Licquorish.

      'The insult,' cried Greybrooke, 'must have been intentional.'

      'No. I fancy the authoress must be to blame for this. Did she send a copy of the work to us?'

      'I should think it very unlikely,' said Greybrooke, fuming.

      'Not at all,' said the editor, 'especially if she is a Silchester lady.'

      'What would make her do that?'

      'It generally comes about in this way. The publishers send a copy of the book to a newspaper, and owing to pressure on the paper's space, no notice appears for some time. The author, who looks for it daily, thinks that the publishers have neglected their duty, and sends a copy to the office himself. The editor, forgetful that he has had a notice of the book lying ready for printing for months, gives the second copy to another reviewer. By and by the first review appears, but owing to an oversight the editor does not take note of it, and after a time, unless his attention is called to the matter, the second review appears also. Probably that is the explanation in this case.'

      'But such carelessness on a respectable paper is incomprehensible,' said the captain.

      The editor was looking up his books to see if they shed any light on the affair, but he answered —

      'On the contrary, it is an experience known to most newspapers. Ah, I have it!'

      Mr. Licquorish read out, 'The Scorn of Scorns, received September 1st, reviewed October 3rd.' Several pages farther on he discovered, 'The Scorn of Scorns, received September 24th, reviewed December 19th.'

      'You will find,' he said, 'that this explains it.'

      'I don't consider the explanation satisfactory,' replied the captain, 'and I insist, first, upon an apology in the paper, and second, on getting the name of the writer of the second review.'

      'I am busy this morning,' said Mr. Licquorish, opening his door, 'and what you ask is absurd. If the authoress can give me her word that she did not send the book and so bring this upon herself, we shall insert a word on the subject but not otherwise. Good-morning.'

      'Give me the writer's name,' cried the captain.

      'We make a point of never giving names in that way,' said Mr. Licquorish.

      'You have not heard the last of this,' Greybrooke said from the doorway. 'I shall make it my duty to ferret out the coward's name, and – '

      'Good-morning,' Mr. Licquorish repeated.

      The captain went thumping down the stairs, and meeting a printer's devil at the bottom, cuffed him soundly because he was part of the Mirror.

      To his surprise, Miss Meredith's first remark when he returned was —

      'Oh, I hope you didn't see him.'

      She looked at Greybrooke's face, fearing it might be stained with blood, and when he told her the result of his inquiries she seemed pleased rather than otherwise. Nell was soft-hearted after all, and she knew how that second copy of the novel had reached the Mirror office.

      'I shall find the fellow out, though,' said Greybrooke, grasping his cudgel firmly.

      'Why, you are as vindictive as if you had written the book yourself,' said Nell.

      Greybrooke murmured, blushing the while, that an insult to her hurt him more than one offered to himself. Nell opened the eyes of astonishment.

      'You don't think I wrote the book?' she asked; then seeing that it was so from his face, added, 'oh no, I'm not clever enough. It was written by – by a friend of mine.'

      Nell deserves credit for not telling Greybrooke who the friend was, for that was a secret. But there was reason to believe that she had already divulged it to twelve persons (all in the strictest confidence). When the captain returned she was explaining all about it by letter to Richard Abinger, Esq. Possibly that was why Greybrooke thought she was not nearly so nice to him now as she had been an hour before.

      Will was unusually quiet when he and Greybrooke said adieu to the whole family of Merediths. He was burning to know where the captain had been, and also what Nell called him back to say in such a low tone. What she said was —

      'Don't say anything about going to the Mirror office, Mr. Greybrooke, to Miss Abinger.'

      The captain turned round to lift his hat, and at the same time expressed involuntarily a wish that Nell could see him punishing loose bowling.

      Mrs. Meredith beamed to him.

      'There is something very nice,' she said to Nell, 'about a polite young man.'

      'Yes,' murmured her daughter, 'and even if he isn't polite.'

      CHAPTER V

      ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE

      On the morning before Christmas a murder was committed in Silchester, and in murders there is 'lineage.' As a consequence, the head reporter attends to them himself. In the Mirror office the diary for the day was quickly altered. Kirker set off cheerfully for the scene of the crime, leaving the banquet in the Henry Institute to Tomlinson, who passed on his dinner at Dome Castle to Rob, whose church decorations were taken up by John Milton.

      Christmas Eve was coming on in snow when Rob and Walsh, of the Argus, set out for Dome Castle. Rob disliked doing dinners at any time, partly because he had not a dress suit. The dinner was an annual one given by Will's father to his tenants, and reporters were asked because the colonel made a speech. His neighbours, when they did likewise, sent reports of their own speeches (which they seemed to like) to the papers; and some of them, having called themselves eloquent and justly popular, scored the compliments out, yet in such a way that the editor would still be able to read them, and print them if he thought fit. Rob did not look forward to Colonel Abinger's reception of him, for they had met some months before, and called each other names.

      It was one day soon after Rob reached Silchester. He had gone a-fishing in the Dome and climbed unconsciously into preserved waters. As his creel grew heavier his back straightened; not until he returned home did the scenery impress him. He had just struck a fine fish, when a soldierly-looking man at the top of the steep bank caught sight of him.

      'Hi, you sir!' shouted the onlooker. Whir went

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