friend, and incidentally to enjoy a few days’ shooting, which accounted for one half of the coincidence. Old Viv accepted his part philosophically; it was not the first time he had been called upon to play it with this up and down young officer, whose temporal senior he was by some six years, and whose elder, in all questions of sapience and self-sufficiency, he might have been by fifty. He did not ask what was the matter, but he said “all right,” as if all right were all reassurance, and gave a little nod to settle the matter. He had a well-looking, rather judicial face, clean shaven, a prim mouth, a somewhat naked head for a man of thirty, and he wore eyeglasses on a neatly turned nose, with a considerable prominence of the organ of eventuality above it. The complacent bachelor was writ plain in his every line. And then he inquired regarding the Baron. 

 “O! I know very little about him,” was young Kennett’s answer. “I believe the governor picked him up in Paris originally, but how or where I can’t say. He’s a marvel at chess; and you remember that’s the old man’s obsession. They’re at it eternally while he’s down here.” 

 “This isn’t his first visit then?” 

 “No, I believe not; but it’s the first time I’ve seen him. I’m quoting Audrey for the chess. Why, what’s the matter? Is anything wrong with him?” 

 “There you go, you rabbit! Who said anything was wrong with him? I’ve met him before, that’s all.” 

 “Have you? Where?” 

 “Why, in Paris. You remember the Montesquieu, and my French Baron?” 

 “I remember there was a Baron. I don’t think you ever told me his name.” 

 “Well, it was Le Sage, and this is the man.” 

 “Is it? That’s rather queer.” 

 “What is?” 

 “The coincidence of your meeting again like this.” 

 “O, as to that, coincidence, you know, is only queer till you have traced back its clues and found it inevitable.” 

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