"Junior Widows' Club. "Midnight.
 
"Dear Miss Dulcimer,
 
"Just a line to tell you what a lovely evening we have had. The baronet seemed greatly taken with Miss Jack¹ and she with him, and they behaved in a conventional manner. Guy and I were able to have a real long chat and he told me all his troubles. It appears that he has just been thrown over by his promised bride under circumstances of a most peculiar² character. I gave him the sympathy he needed, but at the same time thought to myself, aha! here is another member for the Old Maids' Club. You rely on me, I will build you up a phalanx of Old Maids that shall just swamp the memory of Hippolyte and her Amazons. I got out of Guy the name and address of the girl who jilted him. I shall call upon Miss Sybil Hotspur the first thing in the morning, and if I do not land her my name is not
 
"Yours cheerily,
 
"Wee Winnie."
 
"This may be awkward," said the Honorary Trier, returning the letter to the President. "Miss Nimrod seems to take her own election for granted."
 
 "And to think that we are anxious for members," added Lillie.
 
"Well, we ought to have somebody to replace Miss Jack," said Silverdale, with a suspicion of a smile. "But do you propose to accept Wee Winnie?"
 
"I don't know—she is certainly a remarkable³ girl. Such originality⁴ and individuality! Suppose we let things slide a little."
 
"Very well; we will not commit ourselves yet by saying anything to Miss Nim——"
 
"Miss Nimrod," announced Turple the magnificent.
 
"Aha! Here we are again!" cried Wee Winnie. "How are you, everybody? How is the old gentleman? Isn't he here?"
 
"He is very well, thank you, but he is not one of us," said Lillie.
 
"Oh! Well, anyhow, I've got another of us."
 
"Miss Sybil Hotspur?"
 
"The same. I found her raging like a volcano."
 
"What—smoking?" queried⁵ Silverdale.
 
"No, no, she is one of the old sort. She merely fumes," said Wee Winnie, laughing as if she had made a joke. "She was raving⁶ against the infidelity of men. Poor Guy! How his ears must have tingled⁷. He has sent her a long explanation, but she laughs it to scorn. I persuaded her to let you see it—it is so quaint⁸."
 
"Have you it with you?" asked Lillie eagerly. Her appetite for tales of real life was growing by what it fed upon.
 
"Yes—here is his letter, several quires long. But before you can understand it, you must know how the breach⁹ came about."
 
"Lord Silverdale, pass Miss Nimrod the chocolate creams. Or would you like some lemonade?"
 
"Lemonade by all means," replied Wee Winnie, taking up her favorite attitude astride the sofa. "With just a  wee drappie of whiskey in it, if you please. I daresay I shall be as dry as a lime-kiln before I've finished the story and read you this letter."
 
Turple the magnificent duly attended to Miss Nimrod's wants. Whatever he felt, he made no sign. He was simply Turple the magnificent.
 
"One fine day," said Wee Winnie, "or rather, one day that began fine, a merry party made an excursion into the country. Sybil Hotspur and her fiancé, Guy Fledgely, (and of course the baronet) were of the party. After picknicking on the grass, the party broke up into twos till tea-time. The baronet was good enough to pair off with an unattached young lady, and so Sybil and Guy were free to wander away into a copse. The sun was very hot, and the young man had not spared the fizz. First he took off his coat, to be cooler, then with an afterthought he converted it into a pillow and went to sleep. Meantime Sybil, under the protection of her parasol, steadily¹² perused¹³ one of Addiper's early works, chaster in style than in substance, and sneering¹⁴ in exquisitely¹⁵ chiselled¹⁶ epigrams at the weaknesses of his sex. Sybil stole an involuntary glance at Guy—sleeping so peacefully like a babe in the wood, with the squirrels peeping at him trustfully. She felt that Addiper was a jaundiced cynic—that her Guy at least would be faithful unto death. At that instant she saw a folded sheet of paper on the ground near Guy's shoulder. It might have slipped from the inner pocket of the coat on which his head was resting, but if it had she could not put it back without disturbing his slumbers¹⁷. Besides, it might not belong to him at all. She picked up the paper, opened it, and turned pale as death. This is what she read.
 
"Manager of Daily Hurrygraph. Please insert enclosed series, in order named, on alternate days, commencing to-day week. Postal¹⁸ order enclosed."
 "'1. Dearest, dearest, dearest. Remember the grotto¹⁹.—Popsy.
 
"'2. Dearest, dearest, dearest. This is worse than silence. Sobs²⁰ are cheap to-day.—Popsy.
 
"'3. Dearest, dearest, dearest. Only Anastasia and the dog. Thought I should have died. Cruel heart, hope on. The white band of hope! Watchman, what of the night? Shall we say 11.15 from Paddington since the sea will not give up its dead? I have drained the dregs. The rest is silence. Answer to-morrow or I shall dree my weird²¹.—Popsy.'
 
"There was no signature to the letter, but the writing was that which had hitherto borne to poor Sybil the daily assurances of her lover's devotion. She looked at the sleeping traitor²² so savagely²³ that he moved uncomfortably, even in his sleep. Like a serpent that scrap²⁴ of paper had entered into her Eden, and she put it in her bosom²⁵ that it might sting her. Unnoticed, the shadows had been lengthening²⁶, the sky had grown gray, as if in harmony with her blighted²⁷ hopes. Roughly she roused the sleeper²⁸, and hastily they wended their way back to the rendezvous²⁹, to find tea just over and the rush to the station just beginning. There was no time to talk till they were seated face to face in the railway carriage. The party had just caught the train, and bundling in anyhow had become separated. Sybil and Guy were alone again.
 
"Then Sybil plucked from her breast the serpent and held it up.
 
"'Guy,' she said. 'What is this?'
 
"He turned pale. 'W—w—here did you get that from?' he stammered³⁰.
 
"'What is this?' she repeated, and read in unsympathetic accents: 'Dearest, dearest, dearest. Remember the grotto.—Popsy.'
 
 "'Who is "dearest"?' she continued.
 
"'You, of course,' he said with ghastly playfulness.
 
 
"Dearest, is you," he said with ghastly playfulness.
 
"'Indeed. Then allow me to say, sir, I will remember the grotto. I shall never forget it, Popsy. If you wish to communicate with me, a penny postage stamp is, I believe, adequate. Perhaps I am also Anastasia, to say nothing of the dog. Or shall we say the 11-15 from Paddington, Popsy?'
 
"'Sybil, darling,' he broke in piteously. 'Give me back that paper, you wouldn't understand.'
 
"Sybil silently replaced the serpent in her bosom and leant back haughtily³¹.
 
"'I can explain all,' he cried wildly.
 
"'I am listening,' Sybil said.
 
"'The fact is—I—I——' The young man flushed and stammered. Sybil's pursed lips gave him no assistance.
 
"'It may seem incredible—you will not believe it.'
 
"Sybil made no sign.
 
"'I—I—am the victim of a disease.'
 
"Sybil stared scornfully.
 
"'I—I—don't look at me like that, or I can't tell you. I—I—I didn't like to tell you before, but I always knew you would have to know some day. Perhaps it is better it has come out before our marriage. Listen!'
 
"The young man leant over and breathed solemnly in her ear: 'I suffer from an hereditary³² tendency to advertise in the agony column.'
 
"Sybil made no reply. The train drew up at a station. Without a word Sybil left the carriage and rejoined her friends in the next compartment³³."
 
"What an extraordinary excuse," exclaimed Lillie.
 
"So Sybil thought," replied Wee Winnie. "From that day to this—almost a week—she has never spoken to him. And yet Guy persists in his explanation, even to me; which is so superfluous³⁴ that I am almost inclined to  believe in its truth. At any rate I will now read you his letter:—
 
"'Dear Sybil:—
 
"'Perhaps for the last time I address you thus, for if after reading this you still refuse to believe me, I shall not trespass³⁵ upon your patience again. But for the sake of our past love I beg you to read what follows in a trusting spirit, and if not in a trusting spirit, at least to read it. It is the story of how my father became a baronet, and when you know that, you will perhaps learn to pity and to bear with me.
 
"'When a young man my father was bitten by the passion for contributing to the agony column. Some young men spend their money in one way, some in another; this was my father's dissipation. He loved to insert mysterious words and sentences in the advertisement columns of the newspapers, so as to enjoy the sensation of giving food for speculation³⁶ to a whole people. To sit quietly at home and with a stroke of the pen influence the thoughts of millions of his countrymen—this gave my father the keenest satisfaction. When you come to analyze³⁷ it, what more does the greatest author do?
 
"'The agony column is the royal road to successful authorship, if the publication of fiction in leading newspapers be any test of success; for my father used sometimes to conduct whole romances by correspondence, after the fashion of the then reigning³⁸ Wilkie Collins. And the agony column is also the most innocuous method for satisfying that crave³⁹ for supplying topics of conversation which sometimes leads people to crime. I make this analysis to show you that there was no antecedent improbability about what you seem to consider a wild excuse. The desire to contribute to this department of journalism⁴⁰ is no isolated⁴¹ psychical⁴² freak; it is related to many other manifestations⁴³ of mental activity, and is perfectly⁴⁴ intelligible⁴⁵. But this desire, like every other, may be given its head till it runs away with the whole man. So it was with my father. He began—half in fun—with a small advertisement, one insertion. Unfortunately—or fortunately—he made a little hit with it. He heard two men discussing it in a café. The next week he tried again—unsuccessfully this time, so far as he knew. But the third advertisement was again a topic of conversation. Even in his own office (he was training for an architect), he heard the fellows saying, "Did you see that funny advertisement this morning—'Be careful not to break the baby.'"
 
"'You can imagine how intoxicating⁴⁶ this sort of thing is and how the craving⁴⁷ for the secret enjoyment⁴⁸ it brings may grow on a man. Gradually my father became the victim of a passion fiercer than the gambler's, yet akin¹¹ to it. For, he never knew whether his money would procure⁴⁹ him the gratification he yearned⁵⁰ for or not; it was all a fluke. The most promising⁵¹ mysteries would attract no attention, and even a carefully planned novelette, that ran for a week with as many as three characters intervening, would fall still-born upon the tapis of conversation. But every failure only spurred him to fresh effort. All his spare coin, all his savings⁵², went into the tills of the newspaper cashiers. He cut down his expenses to the uttermost farthing, living abstemiously⁵³ and dressing⁵⁴ almost shabbily, and sacrificing everything to his ambitions. It was lucky he was not in a bank; for he had only a moderate income, and who knows to what he might have been driven? At last my father struck oil. Tired of the unfruitful field of romance, whose best days seemed to be over, my father returned to that rudimentary literature which pleases the widest number of readers, while it has the never-failing charm of the primitive⁵⁵ for the jaded⁵⁶ disciples⁵⁷ of culture. He wrote only polysyllabic unintelligibilities.
 
"'Thus for a whole week in every morning agony column he published in large capitals the word:
 
"'Paddlepintospheroskedaddepoid.
 
This was an instantaneous success. But it was only a succès d'estime. People talked of it, but they could not remember it. It had no seeds of permanence in it. It could never be more than a nine days' wonder. It was an artificial, esoteric novelty, that might please the cliques⁵⁸ but could never touch the masses. It lacked the simplicity⁵⁹ of real greatness, that unmistakable elemental cachet which commends things to the great heart of the people. After a bit, this dawned upon my father; and, profiting by his experience, he determined⁶⁰ to create something which should be immortal⁶¹.
 
"'For days he racked his brains, unable to please himself. He had the critical fastidiousness of the true artist, and his ideal ever hovered⁶² before him, unseizable. Grotesque⁶³ words floated about him in abundance, every current of air brought him new suggestions, he lived in a world of strange sounds. But the great combination came not.
 
"'Late one night, as he sat brooding by his dying fire, there came a sudden rapping at his chamber⁶⁴ door. A flash of joy illumined his face, he started to his feet.
 
"'"I have it!" he cried.
 
"'"Have what?" said his friend Marple, bursting into the room without further parley⁶⁵.
 
"'"Influenza⁶⁶," surlily answered my father, for he was not to be caught napping, and Marple went away hurriedly. Marple was something in the city. The two young men were great friends, but there are some things which cannot be told even to friends. It was not influenza my father had got. To his fevered onomatopœic fancy, Marple's quick quadruple rap had translated itself into the word: Olotutu.
 
 "'At this hour of the day, my dear Sybil, it is superfluous to say anything about this word, with which you have been familiar from your cradle. It has now been before the public over a quarter of a century, and it has long since won immortality⁶⁷. Little did you think when we sat in the railway carriage yesterday, that the "Olotutu" that glared at you from the partition was the far-away cause of the cloud now hanging over our lives. But it may be interesting to you to learn that in the early days many people put the accent on the second syllable⁶⁸, whereas all the world now knows, the accent is on the first, and the "o" of "ol" is short. When my father found he had set the Thames on fire, he was almost beside himself with joy. At the office the clerks, in the intervals⁶⁹ of wondering about "Olotutu" wondered if he had come into a fortune. He determined to follow up his success: to back the winning word, to consecrate⁷⁰ his life to "Olotutu," to put all his money on it. Thenceforwards for the next three months you very rarely opened a paper without seeing the word, "Olotutu." It stood always by itself, self-complete and independent, rigid⁷¹ and austere⁷², in provoking sphynx-like solitude⁷³. Sybil, imagine to yourself my father's rapture⁷⁴! To be the one man in all England who had the clue to the enigma⁷⁵ of "Olotutu!" At last the burden of his secret became intolerable. He felt he must breathe a hint of it or die. One night while Marple was smoking in his rooms and wondering about "Olotutu," my father proudly told him all.
 ............