Langholm began to regret his readiness to admit the impeachment with which he had been saluted; it was only in his own club that he would have been pounced upon as the "well-known novelist"; but it was some comfort to reflect that even in his own club his exact address was not known, for his solicitor paid his subscription and sent periodically for his letters.

Charles Langholm had not set up as hermit by halves; he had his own reasons for being thorough there.

And it was more inspiriting than the champagne to feel that no fresh annoyance was likely to befall the Steels through him.
"It's not so bad as I thought," said Langholm, throwing the newspaper aside as his companion, whose professional name was Valentine Venn, finished with the wine-card.
"Dear boy," said Venn, "it took a pal to spot you.

Alone I did it! But I wish you weren't so dark about that confounded cottage of yours; the humble mummer would fain gather the crumbs that fall from the rich scribe's table, especially when he's out of a shop, which is the present condition of affairs.

Besides, we might collaborate in a play, and make more money apiece in three weeks than either of us earns in a fat year.
That little story of yours--" "Never mind my little stories," said Langholm, hastily; "I've just finished a long one, and the very thought of fiction makes me sick." "Well, you've got facts to turn to for a change, and for once they really do seem as strange as the other thing.