The “scurrilous rag” had less to say than Langholm had been led to expect.  He breathed again when he had read the sequence of short but pithy paragraphs.  Mrs. Minchin’s new name was not given after all, nor that of her adopted district; while Langholm himself only slunk into print as “a well-known novelist who, oddly enough, was among the guests, and eye-witness of a situation after his own heart.”  The district might have been any one of the many manufacturing centres in “the largest of shires,” which was the one geographical clew vouchsafed by the half-penny paper.  Langholm began to regret his readiness to admit the impeachment with which he had been saluted; it was only in his own club that he would have been pounced upon as the “well-known novelist”; but it was some comfort to reflect that even in his own club his exact address was not known, for his solicitor paid his subscription and sent periodically for his letters.  Charles Langholm had not set up as hermit by halves; he had his own reasons for being thorough there.  And it was more inspiriting than the champagne to feel that no fresh annoyance was likely to befall the Steels through him.

“It’s not so bad as I thought,” said Langholm, throwing the newspaper aside as his companion, whose professional name was Valentine Venn, finished with the wine-card.

“Dear boy,” said Venn, “it took a pal to spot you.  Alone I did it!  But I wish you weren’t so dark about that confounded cottage of yours; the humble mummer would fain gather the crumbs that fall from the rich scribe’s table, especially when he’s out of a shop, which is the present condition of affairs.  Besides, we might collaborate in a play, and make more money apiece in three weeks than either of us earns in a fat year.  That little story of yours—­”

“Never mind my little stories,” said Langholm, hastily; “I’ve just finished a long one, and the very thought of fiction makes me sick.”

“Well, you’ve got facts to turn to for a change, and for once they really do seem as strange as the other thing.  Lucky bargee!  Have you had her under the microscope all the summer?  Ye gods, what a part of Mrs.—­”

“Drink up,” said Langholm, grimly, as the champagne made an opportune appearance; “and now tell me who that fellow is who’s opening the piano, and since when you’ve started a musical dinner.”

The big room that the screen divided had a grand piano in the dining half, for use upon those Saturday evenings for which the old club was still famous, but rarely touched during the working days of the week.  Yet even now a dark and cadaverous young man was raising the top of the piano, slowly and laboriously, as though it were too heavy for him.  Valentine Venn looked over his shoulder.

“Good God!” said he.  “Another fact worth most folks’ fiction—­another coincidence you wouldn’t dare to use!”

“Why—­who is it?”

Venn’s answer was to hail the dark, thin youth with rude geniality.  The young fellow hesitated, almost shrank, but came shyly forward in the end.  Langholm noted that he looked very ill, that his face was as sensitive as it was thin and pale, but his expression singularly sweet and pleasing.