house where the poodle lay dead. But was he dead? You know he wasn't, as well as I do. What do you ask such senseless questions for? "It's the only sure test," said Alkaloid. "If that dog's alive, he'll wag his tail when I try to photograph him. I never knew it fail."

Outside the door of that gorgeously-furnished room stood an excited group. Algernon, the villain, was soliloquising. Alice was explaining to Cyril how he had dropped his note down the neck of the wrong girl—who was also named Smith—and how she had been compelled to believe him unfaithful. Mr. Ropes was listening attentively at the key-hole, and Cyril was kissing Alice.

Within the room Mr. Alkaloid was photographing the dead poodle. (I call it dead, but of course that doesn't humbug you.)

"Now then, we're ready," they heard Mr. Alkaloid say. "Don't stare. Just a natural, easy—now then—thank you!"

There was dead silence within the room and without. Then the door opened, and Mr. Alkaloid came out cheerfully.

"The poodle's dead all right," he said. "What you took to be blood, Ropes, was blacking off your razor. You really ought not to strop them on your boot. I'll walk round to your shop with you. I want my hair singed."

Alice went into hysterics; Algernon swooned with joy; and Cyril Mush had a fit.

At the moment of going to press, they are all three still in the above condition. The dog, in the meantime, has been accidentally stuffed with the stuffing intended for the stuffer's Christmas goose. The goose was found, on carving, to be stuffed with several shilling shockers, which had been intended to pad the poodle.

And to what better use could they have been put—especially if they were all like this?