The Idiot conveniently had his mouth full of chicken at the moment, and it was to the School-master who had also read him that they all—­the landlady included—­looked for an answer.

“Oh, I think,” returned that worthy, hesitatingly—­“I think you’ll find Clink in any of the public libraries.”

“What is his full name?” persisted Mr. Whitechoker, taking out a memorandum-book.

“Horace J. Clink,” said the Idiot.

“Yes; that’s it—­Horace J. Clink,” echoed the School-master.  “Very virile writer and a clear thinker,” he added, with some nervousness.

“What, if any, of his books would you specially recommend?” asked the Minister again.

The Idiot had by this time risen from the table, and was leaving the room with the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed.

The School-master’s reply was not audible.

“I say,” said the genial gentleman to the Idiot, as they passed out into the hall, “they didn’t get much the best of you in that matter.  But, tell me, who was Clink, anyhow?”

“Never heard of him before,” returned the Idiot.

“And Burrows?”

“Same as Clink.”

“Know anything about Elsmere?” chuckled the genial gentleman.

“Nothing—­except that it and ‘Pigs in Clover’ came out at the same time, and I stuck to the Pigs.”

And the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed was so pleased at the plight of the School-master and of the Bibliomaniac that he invited the Idiot up to his room, where the private stock was kept for just such occasions, and they put in a very pleasant morning together.

IV

The guests were assembled as usual.  The oatmeal course had been eaten in silence.  In the Idiot’s eye there was a cold glitter of expectancy—­a glitter that boded ill for the man who should challenge him to controversial combat—­and there seemed also to be, judging from sundry winks passed over the table and kicks passed under it, an understanding to which he and the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed were parties.

As the School-master sampled his coffee the genial gentleman who occasionally imbibed broke the silence.

“I missed you at the concert last night, Mr. Idiot,” said he.

“Yes,” said the Idiot, with a caressing movement of the hand over his upper lip; “I was very sorry, but I couldn’t get around last night.  I had an engagement with a number of friends at the athletic club.  I meant to have dropped you a line in the afternoon telling you about it, but I forgot it until it was too late.  Was the concert a success?”

“Very successful indeed.  The best one, in fact, we have had this season, which makes me regret all the more deeply your absence,” returned the genial gentleman, with a suggestion of a smile playing about his lips.  “Indeed,” he added, “it was the finest one I’ve ever seen.”