might not interest you--'

'Why, of course it would,' cried Julia. 'Read me one of your nice

stories, there's a dear.'

He had the volume down and his spectacles upon his nose instanter, as

though to forestall some possible retractation. 'What I propose to read

to you,' said he, skimming through the pages, 'is the notes of a highly

important conversation with a Dutch courier of the name of David Abbas,

which is the Latin for abbot. Its results are well worth the money

it cost me, for, as Abbas at first appeared somewhat impatient, I was

induced to (what is, I believe, singularly called) stand him drink. It

runs only to about five-and-twenty pages. Yes, here it is.' He cleared

his throat, and began to read.

Mr Finsbury (according to his own report) contributed about four hundred

and ninety-nine five-hundredths of the interview, and elicited from

Abbas literally nothing. It was dull for Julia, who did not require to

listen; for the Dutch courier, who had to answer, it must have been

a perfect nightmare. It would seem as if he had consoled himself by

frequent appliances to the bottle; it would even seem that (toward the

end) he had ceased to depend on Joseph's frugal generosity and called

for the flagon on his own account. The effect, at least, of some

mellowing influence was visible in the record: Abbas became suddenly a

willing witness; he began to volunteer disclosures; and Julia had just

looked up from her seam with something like a smile, when Morris burst

The Wrong Box