"Why, what is he? A swindler? Or a burglar in disguise, like the
HOUSE ON THE MARSH fellow?" asked the author, with a little twinkle
of amusement in his face.

"Oh, much worse than that," said Mrs. Selldon, lowering her voice.
"I assure you, Mr. Shrewsbury, you would hardly credit the story if
I were to tell it you, it is really stranger than fiction." Mark
Shrewsbury pricked up his ears, he no longer felt bored, he began to
think that, after all, there might be some compensation for this
wearisome dinner-party. He was always glad to seize upon material
for future plots, and somehow the notion of a mysterious Pole
suddenly making his appearance in that quiet country neighbourhood
and winning undeserved popularity rather took his fancy. He thought
he might make something of it. However, he knew human nature too
well to ask a direct question.

"I am sorry to hear that," he said, becoming all at once quite
sympathetic and approachable. "I don't like the thought of those
simple, unsophisticated people being hoodwinked by a scoundrel."

"No; is it not sad?" said Mrs. Selldon. "Such pleasant, hospitable
people as they are! Do you remember the Morleys?"

"Oh yes! There was a pretty daughter who played tennis well."

"Quite so--Gertrude Morley. Well, would you believe it, this
miserable fortune-hunter is actually either engaged to her or on the
eve of being engaged! Poor Mrs. Milton-Cleave is so unhappy about
it, for she knows, on the best authority, that Mr. Zaluski is unfit