THE MYSTERIOUS ADVERTISER.
"JUNIOR WIDOWS' CLUB.
"_Midnight._
"DEAR MISS DULCIMER,
"Just a line to tell you what a lovely evening we have had. The
baronet seemed greatly taken with Miss Jack and she with him,
and they behaved in a conventional manner. Guy and I were able
to have a real long chat and he told me all his troubles. It
appears that he has just been thrown over by his promised bride
under circumstances of a most peculiar character. I gave him the
sympathy he needed, but at the same time thought to myself, aha!
here is another member for the Old Maids' Club. You rely on me,
I will build you up a phalanx of Old Maids that shall just swamp
the memory of Hippolyte and her Amazons. I got out of Guy the
name and address of the girl who jilted him. I shall call upon
Miss Sybil Hotspur the first thing in the morning, and if I do
not land her my name is not
"Yours cheerily,
"WEE WINNIE."
"This may be awkward," said the Honorary Trier, returning the letter to
the President. "Miss Nimrod seems to take her own election for granted."
"And to think that we are anxious for members," added Lillie.
"Well, we ought to have somebody to replace Miss Jack," said Silverdale,
with a suspicion of a smile. "But do you propose to accept Wee Winnie?"
"I don't know--she is certainly a remarkable girl. Such originality and
individuality! Suppose we let things slide a little."
"Very well; we will not commit ourselves yet by saying anything to Miss
Nim----"
"Miss Nimrod," announced Turple the magnificent.
"Aha! Here we are again!" cried Wee Winnie. "How are you, everybody? How
is the old gentleman? Isn't he here?"
"He is very well, thank you, but he is not one of us," said Lillie.
"Oh! Well, anyhow, I've got another of us."
"Miss Sybil Hotspur?"
"The same. I found her raging like a volcano."
"What--smoking?" queried Silverdale.
"No, no, she is one of the old sort. She merely fumes," said Wee Winnie,
laughing as if she had made a joke. "She was raving against the
infidelity of men. Poor Guy! How his ears must have tingled. He has sent
her a long explanation, but she laughs it to scorn. I persuaded her to
let you see it--it is so quaint."
"Have you it with you?" asked Lillie eagerly. Her appetite for tales of
real life was growing by what it fed upon.
"Yes--here is his letter, several quires long. But before you can
understand it, you must know how the breach came about."
"Lord Silverdale, pass Miss Nimrod the chocolate creams. Or would you
like some lemonade?"
"Lemonade by all means," replied Wee Winnie, taking up her favorite
attitude astride the sofa. "With just a wee drappie of whiskey in it, if
you please. I daresay I shall be as dry as a lime-kiln before I've
finished the story and read you this letter."
Turple the magnificent duly attended to Miss Nimrod's wants. Whatever he
felt, he made no sign. He was simply Turple the magnificent.
"One fine day," said Wee Winnie, "or rather, one day that began fine, a
merry party made an excursion into the country. Sybil Hotspur and her
_fiancé_, Guy Fledgely, (and of course the baronet) were of the party.
After picknicking on the grass, the party broke up into twos till
tea-time. The baronet was good enough to pair off with an unattached
young lady, and so Sybil and Guy were free to wander away into a copse.
The sun was very hot, and the young man had not spared the fizz. First
he took off his coat, to be cooler, then with an afterthought he
converted it into a pillow and went to sleep. Meantime Sybil, under the
protection of her parasol, steadily perused one of Addiper's early
works, chaster in style than in substance, and sneering in exquisitely
chiselled epigrams at the weaknesses of his sex. Sybil stole an
involuntary glance at Guy--sleeping so peacefully like a babe in the
wood, with the squirrels peeping at him trustfully. She felt that
Addiper was a jaundiced cynic--that her Guy at least would be faithful
unto death. At that instant she saw a folded sheet of paper on the
ground near Guy's shoulder. It might have slipped from the inner pocket
of the coat on which his head was resting, but if it had she could not
put it back without disturbing his slumbers. Besides, it might not
belong to him at all. She picked up the paper, opened it, and turned
pale as death. This is what she read.
"Manager of _Daily Hurrygraph_. Please insert enclosed series, in order
named, on alternate days, commencing to-day week. Postal order
enclosed."
"'1. Dearest, dearest, dearest. Remember the grotto.--POPSY.
"'2. Dearest, dearest, dearest. This is worse than silence. Sobs are
cheap to-day.--POPSY.
"'3. Dearest, dearest, dearest. Only Anastasia and the dog. Thought I
should have died. Cruel heart, hope on. The white band of hope!
Watchman, what of the night? Shall we say 11.15 from Paddington since
the sea will not give up its dead? I have drained the dregs. The rest is
silence. Answer to-morrow or I shall dree my weird.--POPSY.'
"There was no signature to the letter, but the writing was that which
had hitherto borne to poor Sybil the daily assurances of her lover's
devotion. She looked at the sleeping traitor so savagely that he moved
uncomfortably, even in his sleep. Like a serpent that scrap of paper had
entered into her Eden, and she put it in her bosom that it might sting
her. Unnoticed, the shadows had been lengthening, the sky had grown
gray, as if in harmony with her blighted hopes. Roughly she roused the
sleeper, and hastily they wended their way back to the rendezvous, to
find tea just over and the rush to the station just beginning. There was
no time to talk till they were seated face to face in the railway
carriage. The party had just caught the train, and bundling in anyhow
had become separated. Sybil and Guy were alone again.
"Then Sybil plucked from her breast the serpent and held it up.
"'Guy,' she said. 'What is this?'
"He turned pale. 'W--w--here did you get that from?' he stammered.
"'What is this?' she repeated, and read in unsympathetic accents:
'Dearest, dearest, dearest. Remember the grotto.--POPSY.'
"'Who is "dearest"?' she continued.
"'You, of course,' he said with ghastly playfulness.
[Illustration: _"Dearest, is you," he said with ghastly playfulness._]
"'Indeed. Then allow me to say, sir, I _will_ remember the grotto. I
shall never forget it, Popsy. If you wish to communicate with me, a
penny postage stamp is, I believe, adequate. Perhaps I am also
Anastasia, to say nothing of the dog. Or shall we say the 11-15 from
Paddington, Popsy?'
"'Sybil, darling,' he broke in piteously. 'Give me back that paper, you
wouldn't understand.'
"Sybil silently replaced the serpent in her bosom and leant back
haughtily.
"'I can explain all,' he cried wildly.
"'I am listening,' Sybil said.
"'The fact is--I--I----' The young man flushed and stammered. Sybil's
pursed lips gave him no assistance.
"'It may seem incredible--you will not believe it.'
"Sybil made no sign.
"'I--I--am the victim of a disease.'
"Sybil stared scornfully.
"'I--I--don't look at me like that, or I can't tell you. I--I--I didn't
like to tell you before, but I always knew you would have to know some
day. Perhaps it is better it has come out before our marriage. Listen!'
"The young man leant over and breathed solemnly in her ear: '_I suffer
from an hereditary tendency to advertise in the agony column_.'
"Sybil made no reply. The train drew up at a station. Without a word
Sybil left the carriage and rejoined her friends in the next
compartment."
"What an extraordinary excuse," exclaimed Lillie.
"So Sybil thought," replied Wee Winnie. "From that day to this--almost a
week--she has never spoken to him. And yet Guy persists in his
explanation, even to me; which is so superfluous that I am almost
inclined to believe in its truth. At any rate I will now read you his
letter:--
"'DEAR SYBIL:--
"'Perhaps for the last time I address you thus, for if after
reading this you still refuse to believe me, I shall not
trespass upon your patience again. But for the sake of our past
love I beg you to read what follows in a trusting spirit, and if
not in a trusting spirit, at least to read it. It is the story
of how my father became a baronet, and when you know that, you
will perhaps learn to pity and to bear with me.
"'When a young man my father was bitten by the passion for
contributing to the agony column. Some young men spend their
money in one way, some in another; this was my father's
dissipation. He loved to insert mysterious words and sentences
in the advertisement columns of the newspapers, so as to enjoy
the sensation of giving food for speculation to a whole people.
To sit quietly at home and with a stroke of the pen influence
the thoughts of millions of his countrymen--this gave my father
the keenest satisfaction. When you come to analyze it, what more
does the greatest author do?
"'The agony column is the royal road to successful authorship,
if the publication of fiction in leading newspapers be any test
of success; for my father used sometimes to conduct whole
romances by correspondence, after the fashion of the then
reigning Wilkie Collins. And the agony column is also the most
innocuous method for satisfying that crave for supplying topics
of conversation which sometimes leads people to crime. I make
this analysis to show you that there was no antecedent
improbability about what you seem to consider a wild excuse. The
desire to contribute to this department of journalism is no
isolated psychical freak; it is related to many other
manifestations of mental activity, and is perfectly
intelligible. But this desire, like every other, may be given
its head till it runs away with the whole man. So it was with my
father. He began--half in fun--with a small advertisement, one
insertion. Unfortunately--or fortunately--he made a little hit
with it. He heard two men discussing it in a café. The next week
he tried again--unsuccessfully this time, so far as he knew. But
the third advertisement was again a topic of conversation. Even
in his own office (he was training for an architect), he heard
the fellows saying, "Did you see that funny advertisement this
morning--'Be careful not to break the baby.'"
"'You can imagine how intoxicating this sort of thing is and how
the craving for the secret enjoyment it brings may grow on a
man. Gradually my father became the victim of a passion fiercer
than the gambler's, yet akin to it. For, he never knew whether
his money would procure him the gratification he yearned for or
not; it was all a fluke. The most promising mysteries would
attract no attention, and even a carefully planned novelette,
that ran for a week with as many as three characters
intervening, would fall still-born upon the tapis of
conversation. But every failure only spurred him to fresh
effort. All his spare coin, all his savings, went into the tills
of the newspaper cashiers. He cut down his expenses to the
uttermost farthing, living abstemiously and dressing almost
shabbily, and sacrificing everything to his ambitions. It was
lucky he was not in a bank; for he had only a moderate income,
and who knows to what he might have been driven? At last my
father struck oil. Tired of the unfruitful field of romance,
whose best days seemed to be over, my father returned to that
rudimentary literature which pleases the widest number of
readers, while it has the never-failing charm of the primitive
for the jaded disciples of culture. He wrote only polysyllabic
unintelligibilities.
"'Thus for a whole week in every morning agony column he
published in large capitals the word:
"'_Paddlepintospheroskedaddepoid._
This was an instantaneous success. But it was only a _succès
d'estime_. People talked of it, but they could not remember it.
It had no seeds of permanence in it. It could never be more than
a nine days' wonder. It was an artificial, esoteric novelty,
that might please the cliques but could never touch the masses.
It lacked the simplicity of real greatness, that unmistakable
elemental _cachet_ which commends things to the great heart of
the people. After a bit, this dawned upon my father; and,
profiting by his experience, he determined to create something
which should be immortal.
"'For days he racked his brains, unable to please himself. He
had the critical fastidiousness of the true artist, and his
ideal ever hovered before him, unseizable. Grotesque words
floated about him in abundance, every current of air brought him
new suggestions, he lived in a world of strange sounds. But the
great combination came not.
"'Late one night, as he sat brooding by his dying fire, there
came a sudden rapping at his chamber door. A flash of joy
illumined his face, he started to his feet.
"'"I have it!" he cried.
"'"Have what?" said his friend Marple, bursting into the room
without further parley.
"'"Influenza," surlily answered my father, for he was not to be
caught napping, and Marple went away hurriedly. Marple was
something in the city. The two young men were great friends, but
there are some things which cannot be told even to friends. It
was not influenza my father had got. To his fevered
onomatopoeic fancy, Marple's quick quadruple rap had translated
itself into the word: OLOTUTU.
"'At this hour of the day, my dear Sybil, it is superfluous to
say anything about this word, with which you have been familiar
from your cradle. It has now been before the public over a
quarter of a century, and it has long since won immortality.
Little did you think when we sat in the railway carriage
yesterday, that the "Olotutu" that glared at you from the
partition was the far-away cause of the cloud now hanging over
our lives. But it may be interesting to you to learn that in the
early days many people put the accent on the second syllable,
whereas all the world now knows, the accent is on the first, and
the "o" of "ol" is short. When my father found he had set the
Thames on fire, he was almost beside himself with joy. At the
office the clerks, in the intervals of wondering about "Olotutu"
wondered if he had come into a fortune. He determined to follow
up his success: to back the winning word, to consecrate his life
to "Olotutu," to put all his money on it. Thenceforwards for the
next three months you very rarely opened a paper without seeing
the word, "Olotutu." It stood always by itself, self-complete
and independent, rigid and austere, in provoking sphynx-like
solitude. Sybil, imagine to yourself my father's rapture! To be
the one man in all England who had the clue to the enigma of
"Olotutu!" At last the burden of his secret became intolerable.
He felt he must breathe a hint of it or die. One night while
Marple was smoking in his rooms and wondering about "Olotutu,"
my father proudly told him all.
"'"Great heavens!" exclaimed Marple. "Tip us your flipper, old
man! You are a millionaire."
"'"A what?" gasped my father.
"'"A millionaire!"
"'"Are you a lunatic?"
"'"Are you an idiot? Don't you see that there is a fortune in
'Olotutu'?"
"'"A fortune! How?"
"'"By bringing it out as a Joint Stock Company."
"'"But--but--but you don't understand. 'Olotutu' is only----"
"'"Only an income for life," interrupted Marple excitedly. "Look
here, old boy, I'll get you up a syndicate to run it in
twenty-four hours."
"'"Do you mean to say----?"
"'"No, I mean to do. I'm an ass not to quietly annex it all to
myself, but I always said I was too honest for the City. Give me
'Olotutu' and we'll divide the profits. Glory! Hooray!"
"'He capered about the floor wildly.
"'"But what profits? Where from?" asked my father, still
unenlightened, for, outside architecture, he was a greenhorn.
"'Marple sang the "Ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee" of the day, and
continued his wild career.
"'My father seized him by the throat and pushed him into a
chair.
"'"Speak, man," he cried agitatedly. "Stop your tomfoolery and
talk sense."
"'"I am talking cents--which is better," said Marple, with a
boisterous burst of laughter. "A word that all the world is
talking about is a gold-mine--a real gold-mine. I mean, not one
on a prospectus. Don't you see that 'Olotutu' is a household
word, and that everybody imagines it is the name of some new
patent, something which the proprietor has been keeping dark? I
did myself. When at last 'Olotutu' _is_ put upon the market it
will come into the world under the fierce light that beats upon
a boom, and it will be snapped up like currant cake at a
tea-fight. Why, Nemo's Fruit Pepper, which has been on every
hoarding for twenty years, is not half so much talked about as
'Olotutu.' What you achieved is an immense preliminary
advertisement--and you were calmly thinking of stopping there!
Within sight of Pactolus!"
"'"I had achieved _my_ end!" replied my father with dignity.
"Art for art's sake--I did not work for money."
"'"Then you refuse half the profits?"
"'"Oh, no, no! If the artist's work brings him money, he cannot
help it. I think I catch your idea now. You wish to put some
commodity upon the market attached to the name of 'Olotutu.' We
have a pedestal but no statue, a cloak but nothing to cover."
"'"We shall have plenty to cover soon," observed Marple winking.
And he sat himself unceremoniously at my writing-desk and began
scribbling away for dear life.
"'"I suppose then," went on my father, "we shall have to get
hold of some article and manufacture it."
"'"Nonsense," jerked Marple. "Where are we to get the capital
from?"
"'"Oh, I see you will get the syndicate to do it?"
"'"Good gracious, man!" yelped Marple. "Do you suppose the
syndicate will have any capital? Let me write in peace."
"'"But who _is_ going to manufacture 'Olotutu' then?" persisted
my father.
"'"The British Public of course," thundered Marple. My father
was silenced. The feverish scratching of Marple's pen continued,
working my father up to an indescribable nervous tension.
"'"But what will 'Olotutu' be?" he inquired at last. "A patent
medicine, a tobacco, a soap, a mine, a comic paper, a beverage,
a tooth-powder, a hair-restorer?"
"'"Look here, old man!" roared Marple. "How do you expect me to
bother about details? This thing has got to be worked at once.
The best part of the Company season is already over. But
'Olotutu' is going to make it up. Mark my words the shares of
'Olotutu' will be at a premium on the day of issue. Another
sheet of paper, quick."
"'"What for?"
"'"I want to write to a firm of Chartered Accountants and
Valuers to give an estimate of the profits!"
"'"An estimate of the profits?"
"'"Don't talk like a parrot!"
"'"But how can they estimate the profits?"
"'"How? what do you suppose they're chartered for? You or I
couldn't do it; of course not. But it's the business of
accountants! That's what they're for. Pass me more
writing-paper--reams of it!"
[Illustration: _The public curiosity amounted to frenzy._]
"'Marple spent the whole of that night writing letters to what
he called his tame guinea-pigs; and the very next day large
bills bearing the solitary word "Olotutu" were posted up all
over London till the public curiosity mounted to frenzy. The
bill-posters earnt many a half-crown by misinforming the
inquisitive. Marple worked like a horse. First he drew up the
Prospectus, leaving blanks for the Board of Directors of the
Company. Then he filled up the blanks. It was not easy. One lord
was only induced to serve on Marple's convincing representations
of the good 'Olotutu' would do to the masses. When the Board was
complete, Marple had still to get the Syndicate from which the
Directors were to acquire "Olotutu," but he left this till the
end, knowing there would be no difficulty there. I have never
been able to gather from my father exactly what went on, nor
does my father profess to know exactly himself, but he tells
with regret how he used to worry Marple daily by inquiring if he
had yet decided what "Olotutu" was to be, as if Marple had not
his hands full enough without that. Marple turned round on him
one day and shrieked: "That's your affair, not mine. You're
selling 'Olotutu' to me, aren't you? I can't be buyer and
seller, too."
"'This, by the way, does not seem to be as impossible as it
sounds for, according to my father, when the company came out,
Marple bought and sold "Olotutu" in the most mysterious manner,
rigging the market, watering the shares, cornering the bears,
and doing other extraordinary things, each and all at a profit.
He was not satisfied with his share of the price paid for
"Olotutu" by the syndicate, nor with his share of the enormously
higher price paid to the syndicate by the public, but went in
for Stock Exchange manoeuvres six-deep, coming out an easy
winner on settling day. One of my father's most treasured
collections is the complete set of proofs of the prospectus. It
went through thirteen editions before it reached the public; no
author could revise his book more lovingly than Marple revised
that prospectus. What tales printers could tell to be sure! The
most noticeable variations in the text of my father's collection
are the omission or addition of cyphers. Some of the editions
have £120,000 for the share capital of the Company, where others
have £1,200,000 and others £12,000. Sometimes the directors
appear to have extenuated "nought," sometimes to have set down
"nought" in malice. As for the number of debenture shares, the
amounts to be paid up on allotment, the contracts with divers
obscure individuals, the number of shares to be taken up by the
directors and the number to be accepted by the vendors in part
payment, these vary indefinitely; but in no edition, not even in
those still void of the names of the directors, do the profits
guaranteed by the directors fall below twenty-five per cent.
Sometimes the complex and brain-baffling calculations that fill
page three result in a bigger profit, sometimes in a smaller,
but they are always cheering to contemplate.
"'There is not very much about "Olotutu" itself even in the last
edition, but from the very first, there is a great deal about
the power of the company to manufacture, import, export, and
deal in all kinds of materials, commodities, and articles
necessary for and useful in carrying on the same; to carry on
any other operations or business which the company might from
time to time deem expedient in connection with its main business
for the time being; to purchase, take in exchange, or on lease,
hire, or otherwise, in any part of the world, for any estate, or
interests, any lands, factories, buildings, easements, patent
rights, brands and trademarks, concessions, privileges,
machinery, plant, stock-in-trade, utensils, necessary or
convenient, for the purposes of the company, or to sell,
exchange, let or rent royalty, share of profits, or otherwise
use and grant licenses, easements and other rights of and over,
and in any other manner deal with or dispose of the whole or any
part of the undertaking, business and property of the Company,
and in consideration to accept cash or shares, stock, debenture
or securities of any company whose objects were or included
objects similar to those of the Company.
"'The actual nature of "Olotutu" does not seem to have been
settled till the ninth edition, but all the editions include the
analyst's report, certifying that "Olotutu" contains no
injurious ingredients and is far purer and safer than any other
(here there was a blank in the first eight editions in the
market). From this it is evident that Marple has made up his
mind to something chemical, though it is equally apparent that
he kept an open mind regards its precise character, for in the
ninth edition the blank is filled up with "purgative," in the
tenth with "meat extract," in the eleventh with "hair-dye," in
the twelfth with "cod liver oil," and it is only in the
thirteenth edition that the final decision seems to have been
arrived at in favor of "soap." This of course, my dear Sybil,
you already know. Indeed, if I mistake not, "Olotutu," the only
absolutely scentless soap in the market, is your own pet soap. I
hope it will not shock you too much if I tell you in the
strictest confidence that except in price, stamp, and copious
paper-wrapping, "Olotutu" is simply bars of yellow soap chopped
small. It was here, perhaps, that Marple's genius showed to the
highest advantage. The public was overdone with patent scented
soaps; there seemed something unhealthy or at least
molly-coddling about their use; the time was ripe for return to
the rude and primitive. "Absolutely scentless" became the
trademark of "Olotutu" and the public, being absolutely
senseless (_pace_, my dear Sybil), somehow concluded that
because the soap was devoid of scent it was impregnated with
sanitation.
"'Is there need to prolong the story? My father, so unexpectedly
enriched, abandoned architecture and married almost immediately.
Soon he became the idol of a popular constituency, and, voting
steadily with his party, was made a baronet. I was born a few
months after the first dividend was announced. It was a dividend
of thirty-three per cent, for "Olotutu" had become an
indispensable adjunct to every toilet-table and the financial
papers published leaders, boasting of having put their clients
up to a good thing, and "Olotutu" was on everybody's tongue and
got into everybody's eyes.
"'Can you wonder, then, that I was born with a congenital
craving for springing mysteries upon the public? Can you still
disbelieve that I suffer from an hereditary tendency to
advertise in the agony column?
"'At periodic intervals an irresistible prompting to force
uncouth words upon the universal consciousness seizes me; at
other times I am driven to beguile the public with
pseudo-sensational communications to imaginary personages. It
was fortunate my father early discovered my penchant and told me
the story of his life, for I think the very knowledge that I am
the victim of heredity helps me to defy my own instincts. No man
likes to feel he is the shuttlecock of blind forces. Still they
are occasionally too strong for me, and my present attack has
been unusually severe and protracted. I have been passing
through my father's early phases and conducting romances by
correspondence. Complimentary to the series of messages signed
Popsy, I had prepared a series signed Wopsy to go in on
alternate days, and if you had only continued your search in my
coat-pocket you would have discovered these proofs of my
innocence. May I trust it is now re-established, and that
"Olotutu" has washed away the apparent stain on my character?
With anxious heart I await your reply.
"'Ever yours devotedly,
"'GUY.'
"Sybil's reply was: 'I have read your letter. Do not write to me again.'
She was so set against him," concluded Miss Nimrod, "she would not even
write this but wired it."
"Then she does not believe the story of how Guy Fledgely's father became
a baronet," said Lord Silverdale.
"She does not. She says 'Olotutu' won't wash stains."
"Well, I suppose you will be bringing her up," said the President.
"I will--in the way she should go;" answered Wee Winnie. "To-day is
Saturday; I will bring her on Monday. Meantime as it is getting very
late, and as I have finished my lemonade, I will bid you good
afternoon--have you used 'Olotutu?'" And with this facetious inquiry
Miss Nimrod twirled her stick and was off.
An hour later Lillie received a wire from Wee Winnie.
"_Olotutu. Wretches just reconciled. Letter follows._"
And this was the letter that came by the first post on Monday.
* * * * *
"MY POOR PRESIDENT:
"We have lost Sybil. She takes in the _Hurrygraph_ and reads the
agony column religiously. So all the week she has been exposed
to a terrible bombardment.
"As thus (Tuesday.) 'My lost darling. A thousand demons are
knocking at my door. Say you forgive me or I will let them
in.--BOBO.'
"Or thus. (Wednesday.) 'My lost darling. You are making a
terrible mistake. I am innocent. I am writing this on my bended
knees. The fathers have eaten a sour grape.
Misericordia.--BOBO.'
"The bitter cry of the outcast lover increased daily in
intensity, till on Saturday it became delirious.
"'My lost darling. Save, O Save! I have opened the door. They
are there--in their thousands. The children's teeth are set on
edge. The grave is dug. Betwixt two worlds I fall to the ground.
Adieu forever.--BOBO.'
"Will you believe that the poor little fool thought all this was
meant for her, and that in consequence she thawed day by day
till on Saturday she melted entirely and gushed on Guy's
shoulder? Guy admitted that he had inserted these
advertisements, but he did not tell her (as he afterwards told
me in confidence, and as I now tell you in confidence) that they
had been sent in before the quarrel occurred and constituted his
Agony Column romance for the week, the Popsy Wopsy romance not
being intended for publication till next week. He had concocted
these cries of despairing passion without the least idea they
would so nearly cover his own case. But he says that as his
hereditary craze got him into the scrape, it was only fair his
hereditary craze should get him out of it.
"So that's the end of Sybil Hotspur. But let us not lament her
too much. One so frail and fickle was not of the stuff of which
Old Maids are made. Courage! Wee Winnie is on the warpath.
"Yours affectionately,
"NELLY."