MY fun was at the moment of our meeting not complete, but I saw it
ahead, and Corvick saw that I saw it. I, on my side, saw likewise
that one of the first things he would do would be to rush off with
my story to Gwendolen.

On the very day after my talk with him I was surprised by the
receipt of a note from Hugh Vereker, to whom our encounter at
Bridges had been recalled, as he mentioned, by his falling, in a
magazine, on some article to which my signature was attached. "I
read it with great pleasure," he wrote, "and remembered under its
influence our lively conversation by your bedroom fire. The
consequence of this has been that I begin to measure the temerity
of my having saddled you with a knowledge that you may find
something of a burden. Now that the fit's over I can't imagine how
I came to be moved so much beyond my wont. I had never before
mentioned, no matter in what state of expansion, the fact of my
little secret, and I shall never speak of that mystery again. I
was accidentally so much more explicit with you than it had ever
entered into my game to be, that I find this game--I mean the
pleasure of playing it--suffers considerably. In short, if you can
understand it, I've rather spoiled my sport. I really don't want
to give anybody what I believe you clever young men call the tip.
That's of course a selfish solicitude, and I name it to you for
what it may be worth to you. If you're disposed to humour me don't
repeat my revelation. Think me demented--it's your right; but
don't tell anybody why."

The sequel to this communication was that as early on the morrow as
I dared I drove straight to Mr. Vereker's door. He occupied in
those years one of the honest old houses in Kensington Square. He