the mere serious diversion of the game, and for its capacity for giving a rare meditative flavour to one’s tobacco. The room, too, for such a haunt of gravity, is a cheerful room, with its large window overlooking the Strand, and one may spend a postprandial hour there very agreeably, and eke very gainfully if one takes an idler’s interest in other people’s problems. That I may confess I do, wherefore Simpson’s is, or was, a fairly frequent resort of mine. It Now, on this occasion I had hardly entered the room when my eyes fell on the figure of M. le Baron sitting profoundly absorbed over a game with one in whom I recognised a leading master in the craft. I knew my friend at once, as how could I fail to, for he sat before me in every detail the stranger of the Café l’Univers—bland, roomy, self-possessed, and unchanged as to his garb. I would not venture to break into his preoccupation, but passed him by and took a convenient seat in the window. “Stothard has found his match,” remarked a casual acquaintance who lounged near me, nodding his head towards the pair. “Who is it?” I asked. “Do you know?” “I know his name,” was the answer. “Le Sage, an out-of-pocket French Baron; but that’s all.” “O! out of pocket, is he?” “I’ve no right to say it, perhaps, but I only surmise—he’ll play you for a half-crown at any time, if you’re rash enough to venture. He plays a wonderful game.” “Is he new to the place?” “O, no! I’ve seen him here frequently, though at long intervals.” “Well, I think I’ll go and watch them.” Their table was against the wall, opposite the window. One or two devotees were already established behind the players, mutely following the moves. I took up a position near Le Sage, but out of his range of vision. He had never, to my knowledge, so much as raised his face since I entered the room; intent on his game, he appeared oblivious to all about him. Yet the moment I came to a stand, his voice, and only his voice, accosted me,— “Mr. Bickerdike? How do you do, sir?” I confess I was startled. After
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