Sighing after an obdurate Viennese dancer, he had lured her coachman into helpless intoxication, had invested himself in the domestic's livery, and had driven off with the lady in the darkness after the performance to the outskirts of the town.

What happened exactly, the McMurrays did not know; but there was the devil to pay in Vienna.

And yet this inconsequent libertine did the following before my own eyes.

We were walking down Piccadilly together one afternoon in the hard winter of 1894.

It was a black frost, agonizingly cold.