MULLER THE MYSTIC.

THIS is the sad story of Muller the Mystic.

Muller called himself a first-rate conjurer. Many people thought otherwise, myself amongst them. He was only a fair second-rate performer, and had met with varying success in this country some thirty years ago. Because he thought he ought to be earning bigger money than the provincial theatre managers would pay him, he emigrated to America, and his fellow magicians in England finally lost touch with him.

Eight years ago, he walked into my office, a shabby, unkempt individual with long hair and dirty finger nails. At first I did not recognise him, but he took me warmly by the hand and introduced himself.

"I've just arrived from America," he said, helping himself without invitation to one of my best Coronas. "Got a match? Thanks. Yes, I've just come over. Tell ya what I want to do. Are ya listening?"

"Sure."

"That's right. Get hold of this properly. Wanna see my daughter. She's up in Birmingham and I ain't set eyes on her for twenty years. I'm gonna make, an impression on the gal. She'll be real proud to meet her poppa. Where can I get some suitings?"

"Some what?"

"Suitings. Clothes. I'm gonna look real smart. Ain't bad cigars these, are they?"

"Apparently not," I returned. "As for clothes, the best thing you can do is to buy some misfits. A tailor will be too expensive, but I know a shop where they can fix you up cheaply with a decent suit. Then I'd send a telegram to your daughter telling her what time you intend to arrive. She will probably be on the platform to meet you."

I gave him the name of a good second-hand clothier, and he took his leave, promising to send me a card from Birmingham. But an hour later he was back in the office. He excused his return by telling me that he wanted my opinion on his new clothes, but I have always suspected it was my cigars that were the chief attraction.

Politeness forbade me from telling the Mystic what I thought of his appearance. He was attired in a pair of striped grey trousers, and a patched frock coat which fitted only where it touched. In the buttonhole was fastened a chrysanthemum of gigantic proportions. The top hat on his head was an echo of a fashion thirty years old, and, in addition, was several sizes too big. His gloves were the best part of him, but the guardsman's cane which he carried only tended to heighten the pantomime touch. To complete the picture, he had white canvas spats, and a pair of brown shoes.

"Gee." I breathed.

"Just what I think," he smiled. "Glad ya like 'em--I chose 'em myself. I've sent off the telegram. Thanks for a cigar. I'll pop in again before I go back to the States. S'long."

Two days later, Muller was back in my office, dirty and dishevelled and minus his collar and tie.

"Hello," I said. "You're soon back. What's been happening to you? You seem to have lost your collar."

"Yep," he agreed. "It's half way between here and Birmingham. I felt hot, so I threw it out the window. And as for that gal of mine, she wants her ears boxed. She took one look at me and told me that if I was her poppa, she didn't want to see me any more. Seems she took exception to my clothes. I suppose I ain't cut out for an English gent, so I'm off to the States next week. Gotta cigar?"

And that is how Muller the Mystic's taste in clothes lost him a daughter's love.