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"My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks,

and the British public are really not equal to the mental strain

of having more than one topic every three months. They have been

very fortunate lately, however. They have had my own divorce-case

and Alan Campbell's suicide. Now they have got the mysterious

disappearance of an artist. Scotland Yard still insists that the

man in the grey ulster who left for Paris by the midnight train

on the ninth of November was poor Basil, and the French police

declare that Basil never arrived in Paris at all. I suppose in

about a fortnight we shall be told that he has been seen in San

Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one who disappears is

said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful city,

and possess all the attractions of the next world."

"What do you think has happened to Basil?" asked Dorian, holding

up his Burgundy against the light and wondering how it was that

he could discuss the matter so calmly.