st met and fallen in love with. Before that it was
immaterial to him what had become of his wife. This woman had said to
him: 'Come back to me a free man or never see my face again.'"

"Dear me! Now that's very curious."

"Nothing of the sort. Plain common sense."

"I mean, it's curious because, as a matter of fact, his wife did die a
little later, and he did marry again."

"Told you so," remarked my aunt.

In this way every case in the Stillwood annals was reviewed, and light
thrown upon it by my aunt's insight into the hidden springs of human
action. Fortunate that the actors remained mere Mr. X. and Lady Y., for
into the most innocent seeming behaviour my aunt read ever dark criminal
intent.

"I think you are a little too severe," Mr. Gadley would now and then
plead.

"We're all of us miserable sinners," my aunt would cheerfully affirm;
"only we don't all get the same chances."

An elderly maiden lady, a Miss Z., residing in "a western town once
famous as the resort of fashion, but which we will not name," my aunt
was convinced had burnt down a house containing a will, and forged
another under which her children--should she ever marry and be blessed
with such--would inherit among them on coming of age a fortune of seven
hundred pounds.

The freshness of her views on this, his favourite topic, always
fascinated Mr. Gadley.

"I have to thank you, ma'am," he would remark on rising, "for a
most delightful conversation. I may not be able to agree with your
conclusions, but they afford food for reflection."

To which my aunt would reply, "I hate talking to any one who agrees with
me. It's like taking a walk to see one's own looking-glass. I'd rather
talk to somebody who didn't, even if he were a fool," which for her was
gracious.

He was a stout little gentleman with a stomach that protruded about a
foot in front of him, and of this he appeared to be quite unaware. Nor
would it have mattered had it not been for his desire when talking to
approach as close to his listener as possible. Gradually in the course
of conversation, his stomach acting as a gentle battering ram, he would
in this way drive you backwards round the room, sometimes, unless
you were artful, pinning you hopelessly into a corner, when it would
surprise him that in spite of all his efforts he never succeeded in
getting any nearer to you. His first evening at our house he was talking
to my aunt from the corner of his chair. As he grew more in