guess about your vanishing well, but of the death and
dry bones I know no more than the dead; if so much. And, by the way, my
dear Paynter"--and he turned two bright eyes on the art critic--"I will
excuse you from excusing me for all the things I haven't done; and
you, I hope, will excuse me if I differ from you altogether about the
morality of poets. As you suggest, it is a fashionable view, but I
think it is a fallacy. No man has less right to be lawless than a man of
imagination. For he has spiritual adventures, and can take his holidays
when he likes. I could picture the poor Squire carried off to elfland
whenever I wanted him carried off, and that wood needed no crime to make
it wicked for me. That red sunset the other night was all that a murder
would have been to many men. No, Mr. Ashe; show, when next you sit
in judgment, a little mercy to some wretched man who drinks and robs
because he must drink beer to taste it, and take it to drink it. Have
compassion on the next batch of poor thieves, who have to hold things in
order to have them. But if ever you find ME stealing one small farthing,
when I can shut my eyes and see the city of El Dorado, then"--and he
lifted his head like a falcon--"show me no mercy, for I shall deserve
none."

"Well," remarked Ashe, after a pause, "I must go and fix things up for
the inquest. Mr. Treherne, your attitude is singularly interesting; I
really almost wish I could add you to my collection of murderers. They
are a varied and extraordinary set."

"Has it ever occurred to you," asked Paynter, "that perhaps the men who
have never committed murder are a varied and very extraordinary set?
Perhaps every plain man's life holds the real mystery, the secret of
sins avoided."

"Possibly," replied Ashe. "It would be a long business to stop the next
man in the street and ask him what crimes he never committed and why
not. And I happen to be busy, so you'll excuse me."

"What," asked the American, when he and the poet were alone, "is this
guess of yours about the vanishing water?"

"Well, I'm not sure I'll tell you yet," answered Treherne, something
of the old mischief coming back into his dark eyes. "But I'll tell you
something else, which may be connected with it; something I couldn't
tell until my wife had told you about our meeting in the wood." His face
had grown grave again, and he resumed after a pause:

"When my wife started to follow her father I advised her to go back
first t