be in Queer Street, his collection cannot but grow and become more and more amazing.  He even had the cheek to send the Trustees of the National Gallery a blank cheque asking them to fill it up as they wished whenever they were ready to part with TITIAN’S “Bacchus and Ariadne.”  Though he calls himself a patriot, directly the War is done he will make overtures to Germany.  There is a Vermeer in Berlin on which he has set his heart, and another in Dresden.

I could fill reams in telling you what he has.  But I confine myself to one picture only, which he keeps in a room by itself.  I am not so foolish as to pretend to know anything, but to my eyes this picture was nothing whatever but the Louvre’s “Monna Lisa.”

That being of course impossible, “What a wonderful copy!” I said.

“You may indeed say so,” replied my host.

I looked at it more closely, even applying a pocket magnifying-glass.

“There was not a contemporary duplicate?” I inquired.  “Could LEONARDO have painted two?”

The Chowder King, or whatever he is called, smiled inscrutably.  “No doubt he could,” he said.  “But perhaps,” he continued, “you have not seen the Louvre picture since it was put back after the theft?”

“Not to examine it closely,” I replied.

He laughed softly and led the way to the door.

Now what I want to know is, is it possible that—?

This terrible thought has been haunting me day and night.

I have asked many Americans to tell me about this collector and his methods, but I can get no exact information.  But it seems to be agreed that he would stick at nothing to get a coveted work beneath his roof.  If I have many more such shocks as he gave me I shall give up paint altogether and specialise in photography or the three-colour process.

Anyway, it is God’s own country, and I will tell you my further adventures as I have them.  Tomorrow I am to attend a reception at the White House to hear ELLA WHEELER WILCOX recite an Ode at the President.

Yours, X. Y. Z.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Mr. Green.  “IT DOESN’T SEEM TO ME TO LOOK QUITE RIGHT.”

Artist (engaged solely on account of shortage of labour). “WELL, SIR, THE PANEL WAS A BIT ON THE LONG SIDE, BUT I THOUGHT I’D SPUN THE LETTERING OUT VERY NICE.”]

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

Time—­NIGHT.

SCENE.—­A shell-pitted plain and a cavalry regiment under canvas thereon.  It is not yet “Lights out,” and on the right hand the semi-transparent tents and bivouacs glow like giant Chinese lanterns inhabited by shadow figures.  From an Officers’ mess tent comes the tinkle of a gramophone, rendering classics from “Keep Smiling.”  In a bivouac an opposition mouth-organ saws at “The Rosary.”  On the left hand is a dark mass of horses, picketed in parallel