Hardly had she settled down when she too experienced the same feeling of suffocation and the same involuntary opening of the jaws which Mr. Pottigrew had described.  She struggled against it, but, lacking the will-power of her robust nephew-by-marriage, she was overcome by unconsciousness.  When she came to, a little dazed and faint, a few moments later, she was dismayed to discover that her expensive dental-plate—­a full set—­was lying on the floor, shattered beyond repair.

Not being a person of vivid imagination, she attributed her transient illness to intense sympathy with Mr. Pottigrew, and resigned herself to a diet of slops until she could be furnished with new means of mastication.

Next day, a Saturday, came the climax.  Early in the evening an urgent telegram summoned Mr. Pottigrew back from Brighton.  Hastening home, he was received by a wife distraught.

“What did I tell you?” she wailed.  “Send for Sir CONAN DOYLE.  Poor dear Aubrey!  The doctor is upstairs with him.”

Mr. Pottigrew hurriedly ascended to the bedroom of his son and heir, a fine healthy youth, just of an age to appreciate his father’s cigars. (This, of course, is a pre-Budget story.)

The young fellow lying upon the bed smiled bravely as his father entered, but Mr. Pottigrew was shocked to see that he smiled with toothless gums.  A grave professional-looking man rose from the bedside and beckoned Mr. Pottigrew out of the room.

“This extraordinary case, Sir,” said the doctor as he closed the door behind him, “is the outcome of causes quite beyond the present scope of the medical profession.  The sound, strong, firm teeth—­a splendid set—­of a healthy young man do not jump out of his head of their own accord, every one of them, for any natural reason.”

He paused and lowered his voice as he continued:  “I am afraid, Mr. Pottigrew, however reluctant we may be to admit the possibility, that there is no doubt that you have taken a haunted house.  The previous tenant was a dentist—­poor Mr. Acres.  The room which is your study was his operating room. He died in that room while administering gas to himself preparatory to extracting his own teeth.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  North-Country Farmer (to Profiteer fishing the Fell becks).  “CAUGHT OWT?”

Profiteer. “I’VE NOT ACTUALLY LANDED ANY, BUT THINK I HAD A RISE—­UNLESS IT WAS THE SPLASH FROM MY MINNOW.”]

* * * * *

MRS. GAMP REDIVIVA.

    “Nurse; 39; experienced bottle fed; L40 to L50.”—­Daily Paper.

* * * * *

SPEEDING THE PARTING GUEST.

    “Oban is proving an attractive centre, for Lord ——­, Lady ——­ and
    many others have departed thence during the last day or so.”—­Daily
    Paper.

We think it only kind to suppress the names.