much older than his fifty-three
years, he made it his habit to listen rather than talk. His wide fame as
a criminologist and consulting detective had implanted no egotism in
him. He abhorred the spotlight.

But tonight Judge Wilton, by skilful use of query, suggestion and
reminder, had tempted him into talking "shop." He had been lured into
the role of monologuist for the benefit of his host, Arthur Sloane. He
had talked brilliantly, at length, in detail, holding his three hearers
in spellbound and fascinated interest while he discoursed on crimes
which he had probed and criminals whom he had known.

Not that he _thought_ he had talked brilliantly! By no means! He was
convinced that nine-tenths of the interest manifested in his remarks had
been dictated by politeness. Old Hastings was just that sort of person;
he discounted himself. He was in earnest, therefore, in his present
self-denunciation. He sighed, remembering the volume of his discourse,
the awful length of time in which he had monopolized the conversation.

But his modesty was not his only admirable characteristic. He had, also,
a dependable sense of humour. It came to his relief now--he thought of
his host, a chuckle throttling the beginnings of a second sigh deep down
in his throat.

This was not the first time that Arthur Broughton Sloane had provoked a
chuckle, although, for him, life was a house of terror, a torture
chamber constructed with fiendish ingenuity. Mr. Sloane suffered from
"nerves." He was spending his declining years in the arduous but
surprisingly successful task of being wretched, irritable and
ill-at-ease.

The variety of his agonies was equalled only by the alacrity with which
he tested every cure or remedy of which he happened to hear. He agreed
enthusiastically with his expensive physicians that he was neurasthenic,
psychasthenic and neurotic.

His eyes were weak; his voice was weak; his spirit was weak. He shivered
all day with terror at the idea of not sleeping at night. Every evening
he quivered with horror at the thought of not waking up next morning.
And yet, despite these absorbing, although not entirely delightful,
preoccupations, Mr. Sloane was not without an object in life.

In fact, he had two objects in life: the happiness of his daughter,
Lucille, and the study of crime and criminals. The latter interest had
brought Hastings to the Sloane country home in Virginia. Judge Wilton,
an old friend of the wrecked and wealth