Monsieur Judas: A Paradox. Fergus Hume

corpse-craving poesy."

      "Hardly! I don't believe in going to the gutter for inspiration."

      "Ah! now you are thinking of MM. Zola and Gondrecourt, my friend; but, dear me, how one thing does lead to another. We are discussing literature instead of murder. Let us return to our first loves. Why didn't you attend the inquest?"

      "Because I didn't want to."

      "An all-sufficient reason, indeed," remarked Mr. Fanks, drily, making digs at his book with the pencil. "I wonder you weren't called as a witness."

      "No necessity. I know nothing of the affair."

      "Absolutely nothing?" (interrogative).

      "Absolutely nothing." (decisive).

      Mr. Fanks twirled his vicious little pencil in his fingers, closed his secretive little book with a snap, and replaced them both in his pocket with a sigh.

      "You are a most unsatisfactory medicine, my dear Roger. You have done nothing to cure my detective fever."

      "Am I so bad as that? Come now, I'll tell you one thing: I slept in the room next to that of the dead man."

      "You did?"

      "Yes."

      "And you heard nothing on that night!"

      "If you walked twenty miles during the day, Fanks, you would have been too tired to listen for the sounds of a possible murder."

      "Yes, yes, of course. What a pity we can't look twenty-four hours ahead of things; it would save such a lot of trouble."

      "And prevent such a lot of murders. If such prophetic power were given to humanity, I'm afraid your occupation would be gone."

      "Othello's remark! yes, of course; but I'm sorry you slept so soundly on that night, as some one might have been in the dead man's room."

      "Why do you think so?" asked Roger, quickly.

      "Because the door was slightly ajar," replied Fanks, sagaciously; "a nervous man would not have slept with his door like that. You're sure you heard nothing?"

      "Quite sure."

      "It's a pity—a great pity. By the way, have you ever been to Ironfields?"

      Roger hesitated, turned uneasily in his chair, and at last blurted out:

      "No; I have never been to Ironfields."

      "Humph!" said Fanks, looking doubtfully at him. "I thought you might have met Miss Varlins there for the first time."

      "So I might," replied Roger, equably; "at the same time I might have met her in London."

      "So you don't know anything about Ironfields."

      "Only that it is a manufacturing town given over to the domination of foundries and millionaires in the iron interest; to me it is simply a geographical expression."

      "I plead guilty to the same state of ignorance, but I will shortly be wiser, because I am going down to Ironfields."

      "What for?" demanded Roger, with a start.

      "I shouldn't let you into the secrets of the prison house," said Mr. Fanks, severely; "but as you are 'mine own familiar friend'—Shakespeare again, ubiquitous poet well, as you are mine own familiar friend, I don't mind telling you in confidence, I'm going down to see Wosk & Co., of Ironfields, Chemists."

      "And your object?"

      "Is to find out the name of the gentleman who bought those pills."

      "I don't see what good that will do."

      "Blind, quite blind," said Octavius, nodding his head mournfully. "I will unfold myself—the immortal bard for the third time. When I find out the name of the deceased, which I can do through that pill-box, I will be able to find out all about his antecedents. Satisfied on that point, it is possible, nay probable, that I may find some one who has ill-feelings towards him."

      "And therefore poisons him in Jarlchester while they remain at Ironfields," said Roger, ironically. "I congratulate you on your clear-sightedness."

      "It's puzzling, certainly, very puzzling," replied Fanks, rubbing his head with an air of vexation. "I've got absolutely nothing to work on."