London in early September is a somewhat trying place. Mark Shrewsbury
found it less pleasing in reality than in his visions during the dinner-
party at Dulminster. True, his chambers were comfortable, and his type-
writer was as invaluable a machine as ever, and his novel was drawing to
a successful conclusion; but though all these things were calculated to
cheer him, he was nevertheless depressed. Town was dull, the heat was
trying, and he had never in his life found it so difficult to settle down
to work. He began to agree with the Preacher, that "of making many books
there is no end," and that, in spite of his favourite "Remington's
perfected No. 2," novel-writing was a weariness to the flesh. Soon he
drifted into a sort of vague idleness, which was not a good, honest
holiday, but just a lazy waste of time and brains. I was pleased to
observe this, and was not slow to take advantage of it. Had he stayed in
Pump Court he might have forgotten me altogether in his work, but in the
soft luxury of his Club life I found that I had a very fair chance of
being passed on to some one else.
One hot afternoon, on waking from a comfortable nap in the depths of an
armchair at the Club, Shrewsbury was greeted by one of his friends.
"I thought you were in Switzerland, old fellow!" he exclaimed, yawning
and stretching himself.
"Came back yesterday--awfully bad season--confoundedly dull," returned
the other. "Where have you been?"
"Down with Warren near Dulminster. Deathly dull hole."
"Do for your next novel. Eh?" said the other with a laugh.
Mark Shrewsbury smiled good-naturedly.
"Talking of novels," he observed, with another yawn, "I heard such a
story down there!"
"Did you? Let's hear it. A nice little scandal would do instead of a
pick-me-up."
"It's not a scandal. Don't raise your expectations. It's the story of a
successful scoundrel."
And then I came out again in full vigour--nay, with vastly increased
powers; for though Mark Shrewsbury did not add very much to me, or alter
my appearance, yet his graphic words made me much more impressive than I
had been under the management of Mrs. Selldon.
"H'm! that's a queer story," said the limp-looking young man from
Switzerland. "I say, have a game of billiards, will you?"
Shrewsbury, with prodigious yawn, dragged himself up out of his chair,
and the two went off together. As they left the room the only other man
present looked up from his newspaper, following them with his eyes.
"Shrewsbury the novelist," he thought to himself. "A sterling fellow!
And he heard it from an Archdeacon's wife. Confound it all! the thing
must be true then. I'll write and make full inquiries about this Zaluski
before consenting to the engagement."
And, being a prompt, business-like man, Gertrude Morley's uncle sat down
and wrote the following letter to a Russian friend of his who lived at
St. Petersburg, and who might very likely be able to give some account of
Zaluski:--
Dear Leonoff,--Some very queer stories are afloat about a young Polish
merchant, by name Sigismund Zaluski, the head of the London branch of
the firm of Zaluski and Zernoff, at St. Petersburg. Will you kindly
make inquiries for me as to his true character and history? I would
not trouble you with this affair, but the fact is Zaluski has made an
offer of marriage to one of my wards, and before consenting to any
betrothal I must know what sort of man he really is. I take it for
granted that "there is no smoke without fire," and that there must be
something in the very strange tale which I have just heard on the best
authority. It is said that this Sigismund Zaluski left St. Petersburg
in March 1881, after the assassination of the late Czar, in which he
was seriously compromised. He is said to be an out-and-out Nihilist,
an atheist, and, in short, a dangerous, disreputable fellow. Will you
sift the matter for me? I don't wish to dismiss the fellow without
good reason, but of course I could not think of permitting him to be
engaged to my niece until these charges are entirely disproved.
With kind remembrances to your father,
I am, yours faithfully
HENRY CRICHTON-MORLEY.