divided into four garden-beds, separated from each other by narrow
paths of broad, red tile bordered by box. All in all it was a
charming little bit of formal gardening; I could imagine how pretty
it would be on a spring morning, when the beds should be gay with
crocuses and tulips.

We were admitted into the club proper by a liveried servant, and
from the handsome oak-panelled vestibule we passed into a lofty
apartment hung with pictures and filled with miscellaneous objects
of art. All, without exception, were execrable--miserable daubs of
painting, criminal essays in plastic and decorative work, and a
collection of statuary that could be adequately matched only by the
horrors in Central Park. "Our art gallery, gentlemen," explained
Dr. Magnus.

Art gallery indeed! To me it was the most melancholy of
exhibitions, but Indiman was enraptured.

"What a magnificent record of failure!" he exclaimed. "What
miracles of ineptitude!" and Dr. Magnus smiled, well pleased.

We ascended to the next floor. Here was the library, lined ceiling-
high with books that had fallen still-born from the press. Gigantic
cabinet presses occupied the centre of the room, the final
depository of countless "unavailable" MSS. In an adjoining room
were glass-cases crowded with mechanical models of unsuccessful
inventions. Naturally, I expected to see a large section devoted to
the resolution of the perpetual-motion problem, but in this I was
disappointed, not a single specimen of the kind could I discover.