(Fragment from a Romance founded on Reality.)

He had become famous. Or perhaps that was scarcely the word—notorious would have been better. At any rate his name had appeared in the papers. For nine days everyone talked about him. It was during those nine days that he was wanted. No, not by the myrmidons of the law. He had escaped them. His plea of innocent had been accepted. So far as Scotland Yard was concerned he was safe. Quite safe.

But was he safe from "that other"? Ah, there was the point. With the instinct of desperation he took himself off. He hurried away. He went by an excursion train—one that stopped at all the stations and was called a "fast train to this place" and "that place," but never referred to in connection with its destination—and arrived in due time at a cockney watering-place.

He was followed! As sure as fate, came the follower! Ready to hunt him down! Ready to take him! He rapidly repacked his bag. He hurriedly left for the station. Once again he was flying away. Now he had chosen a prosperous city. The place was teeming with population. Surely he would be lost in this giddy throng? No. He was followed! On came the pursuer! Ready to take him!

Again and again the same thing happened. Did he go to the Continent, his pursuer was after him. Did he travel to Scotland, he was met in the Highlands by the same fatal presence.

It was useless to fight against destiny any longer. Assisted by those interested in a popular paper—which had slightly altered its character, changing from an authority on scientific research into a cheap sporting weekly—he reached the Antarctic Circle. He heard following footsteps. He tried to hide himself behind the South Pole. But it was of no avail. At length he was discovered! They stood face to face, both wearing skates.

"What do you want with me?"

"You were accused of murder, but was innocent."

"Yes," he returned, with an ugly frown. "I was innocent that time."

"You are an interesting person. I have followed you all this way because I have determined to interview you."

"No you don't," cried the pursued, drawing a sword walking-stick, and holding the blade dagger-wise.

"Yes I do," shouted the pursuer, producing a note-book. "And now tell me who were your father and mother?"

There was a short, decisive struggle, and then all was over.

"If there is ever an inquest in this distant spot," said the conqueror, "the jury will bring it in justifiable homicide."

And no doubt he was right in his conjecture.

Title for the New Irish Farcical Comedy.—The Two (or more) Shamrocks; or, A Little Cheque!