seen a man of the name of Walcott--Alan Walcott: a man who
writes poetry, and so forth?"

"I know him by name, that is all. I have heard people say he is one of
the best poets we have; but I don't pretend to understand our latter-day
bards."

"You never met him?"

"No."

"Well, then," said Mr. Dalton, who, though a justice of the peace, and
the oldest of the four, could give them all points and beat them as a
retailer of gossip; "well, then, that leaves me free to tell you as
curious a little history as any I know. But mind, you fellows," he
continued, as the others pricked up their ears and prepared to listen,
"this is not a story for repetition, and I pledge you to silence before
I say another word."

"Honor bright!" said Charles Milton; and the captain nodded his head.

"The facts are these: Five or six years ago, I knew a little of Alan
Walcott. I had made his acquaintance in a fortuitous way, and he once
did me a good turn by coming forward as a witness in the police court."

"Confession is good for the soul," Milton interjected.

"Well, I was summoned for thrashing a cabman, and I should certainly
have been fined if Walcott had not contrived to put the matter in its
proper light. For a month or two we saw a good deal of each other, and I
rather liked him. He was frank and open in his ways, and though not a
well-to-do man, I never observed anything about him that was mean or
unhandsome. I did not know that he was married at first, but gradually I
put two and two together, and found that he came out now and again to
enjoy a snatch of personal freedom, which he could not always make sure
of at home.

"Once I saw his wife, and only once. She was a strikingly handsome
Frenchwoman, of that bold and flaunting type which generally puts an
Englishman on his guard--all paint and powder and cosmetics; you know
the style!"

"Not exactly a poetic ideal," said Sydney.

"That is just what I thought at the time; and she seems to have been
still less so in character. When I saw her she was terribly excited
about some trifle or other--treated Walcott like a dog, without the
slightest consideration for his feelings or mine, stood over him with a
knife, and ended with a fit of shrieking hysterics."

"Drink or jealousy?" Captain Williams asked.

"Perhaps a little of both. Walcott told me afterwards that that was his
daily and nightly experience, and that he was making up his mind to end
it. I never knew what he meant