particular person whom he would insult, and
then sat himself immediately behind that person.
The curtain rose for the continuation of the
performance, and when the audience were
eagerly listening to the singers, Claveau drew
from his pocket a pack of cards, which he gravely
proceeded to shuffle: watching all the while,
with a fierce look, the slightest movements of
the individual with whom he was bent upon
picking a quarrel. His friend having cut the
cards, he dealt to his friend and to himself, and
this pair of spadassins commenced playing a
game of écarté on the crown of a hat, as
unconcernedly as though they had been in the
card-room of their club. Suddenly, and precisely
at the moment when the principal singer
entered, Claveau cried out so that the whole house
might hear him:

"I mark the king!"

A loud murmur followed this untimely
exclamation.

"Silence!" shouted the predestined victim,
looking round at Claveau and perfectly
unconscious of the fate in store for him.

"I tell you that I mark the king!" roared
Claveau, darting back on him a savage glance.

"And I tell you that you are an ill-mannered
fellow," was the response.

At these words the duellist rose, and, in
the midst of the clamour raised by the
protests of the audience, gave a sharp box on
the ear to the unhappy individual who had
ventured to remonstrate with him. Addresses
were, of course, exchanged, and Lucien
Claveau quitted the theatre perfectly satisfied: for
the outrage had been as public as possible. On
the following day the duellist killed his man, and
thought himself entitled to share the marquis's
honours.

When the latter was informed of all the
details of the quarrel, he called immediately on
Claveau to congratulate him.

"What you have been doing is certainly
rather remarkable in its way," said the marquis,
"but I promise you I will hit upon something,
better still."

"That is hardly possible," replied his friend,
"unless we ourselves were to fight, and——"

"So, then, you, too, think of this coming
about between us, do you?" asked the marquis,
regarding his rival languidly.

"One day or other, I fear, we shall be
compelled to fight," rejoined Claveau. "We shall
be forced to take the step, sooner or later, I
fancy, in defence of our reputations."

"My poor friend, I hope not!" exclaimed
Lignano, grasping Claveau's hand with an
affectation of tenderness.

"Dear old fellow!" responded the other,
pumping up with considerable effort a
hypocritical tear.

One can imagine a couple of hyenas, as they
dispute in the night time over some dead body,
interchanging such sickening expressions of
sympathy.

"Ere long you shall hear me talked about,"
rejoined the marquis, on taking leave. Indeed
he was not the man to allow Lucien Claveau to
enjoy his triumph long. He was resolved to
outdo his rival, and in a few days, had decided
upon his plan.

THE LITTLE INNS OF COURT.

A MAN may have taken a nap much shorter
than that of Rip Van Winkle, and, on awakening
in this present October of eighteen
hundred and sixty-eight, find himself a stranger to
many parts of London. Say, for instance, that
before his departure to the Land of Dreams, he
happened to hold chambers in Lyons Inn. On
returning to the Land of Real Life, he will
probably desire to go home. But, although he
have his latch-key safe in his pocket, he will be
puzzled to find his outer door; his very staircase
will elude his search; and, in fact, the
result of his most vigilant voyage of discovery
will be that the inn itself has no existence.
True, indeed, it is that this time-worn and time-eaten
institution has been swept off the face of
creation—demolished with hundreds of
surrounding edifices to make room for the new
Palace of Justice, which one of these days will
supersede the lodgings at present held by that
impartial lady at Westminster. And now that
it is no more, the question may well be asked,
What did it mean by ever having been? And
if the inquiry have interest in the case of a
defunct inn, it may not be inappropriate as
regards inns which are living, and show no signs
of being otherwise—the little inns of court, in
fact, whose relations to the inns of court proper
are not very clear, and whose uses, except for
the purpose of residence, are not easy to determine.

The inns of court proper, however, have an
intelligible use. They are entrusted with the
work of legal education, and supply us with our
barristers at law. But the little inns,
associated with the large inns, are "things that no
fellow can understand;" and the "fellows"
who least pretend to the task of comprehension
appear to be the persons connected with their
administration.

We gather this impression from the results
of an inquiry made more than a dozen years
ago by a royal commission upon the subject of
the inns of court and legal education. The
recommendations of the commissioners, involving
as they do very important changes, it has not
been found expedient to carry out, except in a
very modified degree. But the information given
about the little inns is rather amazing.

Take Lyons Inn for instance, which has just
been swept away. Mr. Timothy Tyrrell, called
as a witness before the commission, told all
he knew about the institution. Being asked
what was the constitution of the inn, he
replied indirectly that it consisted of what he
"believed" to be either members or ancients,
but which he could not say; he "believed"
the terms to be synonymous. No other
class of persons had been connected with