a great dread of losing, and played carefully for very small stakes, and
seldom won more than half-a-crown or three shillings. At some distance
from them a young gentleman reclined in an easy-chair, smoking a
cigarette, and apparently not listening to their conversation. This was
Mr. Merton Chance, clerk in the Foreign Office, and supposed by his
friends to be extremely talented. He was rather slight but well-formed, a
little under the medium height, clean shaved, handsome, colourless as
marble, with black hair and dark blue eyes that looked black.

Miss Starbrow, who had left the room a few minutes before, came in, and
standing by the table listened to the curate.

"Miss Starbrow," said he, appealing to her, "is it not hard? Captain
Horton either doubts my veracity or believes that I am only joking when I
assure him that what I have just told him is plain truth."

"Well, let me hear the whole story," she replied, "and I'll act as
umpire."

"I couldn't wish for a juster one--nor for a fairer," he replied with a
weak smile. "What I said was that I had once attended a dinner to the
clergy in Yorkshire, at which there were sixteen of us present, and the
surnames of all were names of things--objects or offices or something--
connected with a church."

"Well, what were the names?"

"You see he remembers only one--a Mr. Church," said Captain Horton.

"No, pardon me. A Mr. Church, and a Mr. Bishop, and a Mr. Priest, and a