"For the second time of asking—I mean meeting," interpolated Fanks, lightly. "So her name was Judith. Heroic name, suggestive of queenly woman, dark-browed Cleopatra, and all that sort of thing. I picture to myself a grand Semiramis."
Roger shook his head.
"No; she was not a handsome woman. Tall, graceful, dark-browed, if you like, but not pretty."
"Pshaw! who ever called regal Semiramis pretty? Such a weak adjective. But I guess your meaning. Her mind was more beautiful than her face."
"If her face had been as beautiful as her mind, sir," replied Axton, in the Johnsonian style, "she would have been the most beautiful woman in the world."
"Like Dulcinea, eh, Don Quixote Roger? Well; and you met often—juxtaposition is fatal—and love sprang up like Jonah's gourd in one night."
"No; she was not a woman to be lightly won. Judith had with her a cousin—a pretty, golden-haired damsel, whom she worshipped."
"Oh! had you met Golden-hair before?"
"Yes; but I didn't take much notice of her."
"Of course. Preferred brunette to blonde!"
"Decidedly. Well, Florry Marson—"
"The blue-eyed darling?"
"Yes. Florry Marson was a foolish, frivolous little thing, who had been confided to Judith's care by her dead mother."
"Whose dead mother, Florry's or Judith's?" asked Fanks, lightly.
"Florry's, of course," replied Roger, impatiently; "and Judith looked after her like the apple of her eye, though I'm afraid she had rather a hard task, for Miss Marson was one of those irritating girls who did all manner of things without thinking. She was engaged to marry a man called Spolger."
"Anything to do with 'Spolger's Soother, a Good Night's Rest'?"
"Yes; he's the owner."
"Oh! and frivolous Florry didn't like him."
"How do you know?" asked Roger, in a startled tone.
"Because I've seen Spolger's Soother, and he's not pretty enough for such an empty-headed minx as you describe Miss Marson."
"You are right. She was engaged to him by her father's desire, but she loved a scamp—good-looking, of course, with no money, and had been exiled to Ventnor to escape him."
"Eh! It's quite a romance," said Fanks, gaily. "What was the scamp's name?"
Roger fidgeted in his chair before replying, which action did not escape the lynx eyes of Mr. Fanks, who said nothing, but waited.
"I don't know," said Roger, turning away his head.
"That's a lie," thought Octavius, as he saw the manner in which Mr. Axton replied to a seemingly simple question. "Queer! Why should he tell me such a useless lie?"
"I don't know anything about the scamp," went on Axton, hurriedly; "but he is the cause of all my unhappiness."
"How so?"
"Because Judith—Miss Varlins—refused to marry me on his account."
"What! she loved him also. Fascinating scamp!"
"I don't know if she loved him exactly," said Axton, in a musing tone. "The reason she gave me for her rejection of my proposal was that she could not leave her cousin Florence; but she seemed strangely moved when she spoke of—of Florry's lover."
"Don't you remember his name?" asked Fanks, noticing the momentary hesitation.
"No, I don't," replied Roger, angrily. "Why do you keep asking me that question?"
"Oh, nothing," said Octavius, quietly; "only I thought that as these two girls had told you so much about themselves, they might have told you more."
"Judith Varlins is a very reserved woman."
"And Miss Marson?"
"I didn't see much of her," answered Roger, moodily, "nor did I wish to—a frivolous little minx, who came between me and my happiness. Well, there's nothing more to tell. After my rejection I left Ventnor for London, and ultimately came down here on a walking tour."
"You've not seen Miss Varlins since, I suppose?"
Again Roger turned away his head, and again the action is noted by Mr. Fanks.
"No," replied Axton, in a low voice. "I—I have not seen her since."
"Lie number two," thought Octavius, wonderingly. "What does it all mean? Do you correspond with her?" he asked, aloud.
"No! Confound it, Fanks, don't put me in the witness-box," cried Roger, rising to his feet.
"I beg your pardon, old fellow," said Octavius, meekly, "it's a habit I've got. A very bad one, I'm afraid. Well, I hope things will go well with you and the marriage with Miss Varlins will take place."
Roger, who was walking rapidly up and down the long room, now vanishing into the chill shadow, anon emerging into the warm lamp-light, stopped at the sound of the name and flung up his arms with a low cry of anguish.
"Never! never!" he cried bitterly, "I shall never marry her."
"Poor old chap, you do seem to be hard hit," said Octavius, sympathetically, "but hope for the best. Florry will marry her patent medicine man, and forget the scamp. Judith will marry you and forget Florry, so things will come out all straight in the long run."
"I hope so," said Axton, resuming his seat, rather ashamed of his emotion; "but they don't look very promising at present. Ah, well, it's no use fighting Destiny. Do you remember the grim view old Sophocles takes of that deity? A classic Juggernaut, crushing all who oppose her. I trust I won't be one of her victims, but I'm doubtful. However, now I've told you my story, what about your own?"
"Mine," said Mr. Fanks, lightly; "bless you, Roger, I'm like Canning's knife-grinder, I've got none to tell. As you know, I'm the eighth son of an impoverished country gentleman, hence my name, Octavius. All my brothers were put into the army, the navy, the Church, and all that sort of thing, so when my turn came to make a début in life there was nothing left for me to do. My father, at his wits' end, suggested the colonies, that refuge for destitute younger sons, but I didn't care about turning digger or sheep farmer, and positively refused to be exiled. I came up to London to look round, and made my choice. Being fond of puzzles and cryptograms, I thought I would turn my ingenuity in unravelling enigmas to practical account, and became a detective. The family cast me off; however, I didn't mind that. I left off the name of Rixton and took that of Fanks—my old school name, you remember—so I didn't disgrace the Rixtons of Derbyshire. Being a gentleman doesn't mean bread and butter in these democratic days; and though my pedigree's as long as the tail of a kite, it was quite as useless in a commercial sense. Besides, the detective business is just as honourable as any other, and also very exciting, so I don't regret having gone in for it. I get well paid also, and the life suits me."
"Is your father reconciled to you yet?"
"Oh, yes, in a sort of a way; but the Vidocq business sticks in his throat and he can't swallow it. However, I visit the paternal acres sometimes, and no one thinks Octavius Rixton, gentleman, has anything to do with Octavius Fanks, detective."
"And you like your profession?"
"I adore it. Mystery has a wonderful charm for human nature, and there's a marvellous fascination in joining together a criminal puzzle. I've had all kinds of queer cases through my hands dealing with the seamy side of humanity, and have been uniformly successful with the lot. This affair, however, puzzles me dreadfully."
"It's a horrible thing," said Roger, relighting his pipe, which had gone out. "I went for a long walk to-day so as to avoid the inquest."
"Ah, you poets have not got strong nerves."
"I'm