Three months afterwards there was a tempest in Dansington.  COBBYN had gone away for two days and had stayed away for good.  His intimates and the Dansington tradesmen became uneasy, rumours began to spread, and the result was a crash which made some very knowing fellows look extremely foolish, and filled the Club with honest British imprecations.  Little TOM SPINDLE, who commanded a troop of the Fallowshire Yeomanry (the Duke of DASHBOROUGH’S Hussars) and had the reputation of spending a royal income with beggarly meanness, had backed one of COBBYN’S bills for L1,000.  Sir PAUL PACKTHREAD, one of the greatest of the local magnates, had lent him L500 without a scrap of security, and Colonel CHUTNEY had put L300 into the Ephemeral Soapsuds Company, Limited, of which COBBYN was to have been the managing director.  I cannot go through the whole long list.  He had fleeced all that was fleeceable in Dansington, and had vanished into the clouds.  How he managed to do it, by what artful proposals he conquered the avarice of SPINDLE, prevailed over the mercantile sagacity of PACKTHREAD, and subdued the fiery temper of CHUTNEY, will never be known.  Partly, no doubt, he succeeded by being here and there perfectly truthful and candid.  He was the son of a well-to-do country Squire, but the father had long since ejected his offspring from the paternal mansion; he had really travelled and had often displayed pluck.  But his chief gifts were his good-humour, his ardent imagination, and a persuasive tongue that gained for him the trusting confidence of his victims almost before he himself knew that he meant to victimise them.

They tell me he is now established somewhere in the West of America.  Wherever he goes he is sure to be popular—­for a time.

Goodbye, dear old PLAU! 
                I hope I haven’t bored you. 
                                Yours trustfully,
                                                DIOGENES ROBINSON.

* * * * *

A WILDE “TAG” TO A TAME PLAY.

    SCENE—­A Theatre with Audience and Company complete.  The former
    “smart” and languidly enthusiastic, the last wearily looking forward to
    the final “Curtain.”  The last Act is all but over.

Servant (to Countess).  The Duchess of BATTERSEA is in the Hall.  May she come up?

Countess. Certainly.  Why did you not show her up at once?

Servant (arranging his powdered hair in a glass).  Because in cases of exposure her Grace is quite equal to showing up herself!

Countess (smiling).  You are cynical, JOHN.  Do you not know that cynicism is the birthright of fools, and, when discovered, is more than half found out?

Servant (taking up coal scuttle).  Like the hair of your Lady-ship—­out of curl! [Exit.

Countess. A quaint conceit; but here is my husband.  Let me avoid him.  A married man is quite out of date—­save when he forms the subject of his own obituary. [Exit.