entleman, in the tone of one discussing a point of abstract
science, "it may be remarked that the state of mind which you attribute
to Manderson--"

"Suppose we have the story first," Trent interrupted, gently laying a
hand on Mr. Cupples' arm. "You were telling us," he went on, turning to
Marlowe, "how things stood between you and Manderson. Now will you tell
us the facts of what happened that night?"

Marlowe flushed at the barely perceptible emphasis which Trent laid upon
the word "facts." He drew himself up.

"Bunner and myself dined with Mr. and Mrs. Manderson that Sunday
evening," he began, speaking carefully. "It was just like other dinners
at which the four of us had been together. Manderson was taciturn and
gloomy, as we had latterly been accustomed to see him. We others kept a
conversation going. We rose from the table, I suppose, about nine. Mrs.
Manderson went to the drawing-room, and Bunner went up to the hotel to
see an acquaintance. Manderson asked me to come into the orchard behind
the house, saying he wished to have a talk. We paced up and down the
pathway there, out of earshot from the house, and Manderson, as he
smoked his cigar, spoke to me in his cool, deliberate way. He had never
seemed more sane, or more well-disposed to me.

"He said he wanted me to do him an important service. There was a big
thing on. It was a secret affair. Bunner knew nothing of it, and the
less I knew the better. He wanted me to do exactly as he directed, and
not bother my head about reasons.

"This, I may say, was quite characteristic of Manderson's method of
going to work. If at times he required a man to be a mere tool in his
hand, he would tell him so. He had used me in the same kind of way a
dozen times. I assured him he could rely on me, and said I was ready.
'Right now?' he asked. I said, of course I was.

"He nodded, and said--I tell you his words as well as I can recollect
them--'Well, attend to this. There is a man in England now who is in
this thing with me. He was to have left to-morrow for Paris by the noon
boat from Southampton to Havre. His name is George Harris--at least
that's the name he is going by. Do you remember that name?' 'Yes,' I
said, 'when I went up to London a week ago you asked me to book a cabin
in that name on the boat that goes to-morrow. I gave you the ticket.'
'Here it is,' he said, producing it from his pocket.

"'Now,' Manderson said to me, poking his cigar-butt at me with each
sen