ar, and very wisely he had reversed the arrangement. He was a
slightly pompous but simpleminded little old gentleman, very proud of
his position as head clerk to Mr. Stillwood, the solicitor to whom my
father was now assistant. Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal dated back
to the Georges, and was a firm bound up with the history--occasionally
shady--of aristocratic England. True, in these later years its glory
was dwindling. Old Mr. Stillwood, its sole surviving representative,
declined to be troubled with new partners, explaining frankly, in
answer to all applications, that the business was a dying one, and
that attempting to work it up again would be but putting new wine
into worn-out skins. But though its clientele was a yearly diminishing
quantity, much business yet remained to it, and that of a good class,
its name being still a synonym for solid respectability; and my father
had deemed himself fortunate indeed in securing such an appointment.
James Gadley had entered the firm as office boy in the days of its
pride, and had never awakened to the fact that it was not still the most
important legal firm within the half mile radius from Lombard Street.
Nothing delighted him more than to discuss over and over again the
many strange affairs in which Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal had been
concerned, all of which he had at his tongue's tip. Could he find a
hearer, these he would reargue interminably, but with professional
reticence, personages becoming Mr. Y. and Lady X.; and places, "the
capital of, let us say, a foreign country," or "a certain town not
a thousand miles from where we are now sitting." The majority of his
friends, his methods being somewhat forensic, would seek to discourage
him, but my aunt was a never wearied listener, especially if the case
were one involving suspicion of mystery and crime. When, during their
very first conversation, he exclaimed: "Now why--why, after keeping away
from his wife for nearly eighteen years, never even letting her know
whether he was alive or dead, why this sudden resolve to return to her?
That is what I want explained to me!" he paused, as was his wont, for
sympathetic comment, my aunt, instead of answering as others, with a
yawn: "Oh, I'm sure I don't know. Felt he wanted to see her, I suppose,"
replied with prompt intelligence:

"To murder her--by slow poison."

"To murder her! But why?"

"In order to marry the other woman."

"What other woman?"

"The woman he had ju