member of the Worst Sellers' Dining Club, I am precluded by my oath from reading any work of fiction which sells more than three hundred and fifty copies in Great Britain. Nevertheless"
"Oh; shut up," I said! Chloë. At the same moment she drove the point of her parasol vigorously into the ribs of Sir William. "Now then, Venerable," she went on, while Sir William fell back gasping and clutching at his side, "which is it to be—Peace or War?"
"It is for you to choose, my love," said the Archdeacon.
"That be hanged!" said Chloë. "The decision rests with you. If you've got that manuscript and care to produce it, do so and see me whistle up my sleuth-dog. If you haven't, say so like a man."
"I won't conceal from you, Chloë," said the Archdeacon, "that I would much
