ne and his enlightened landlordism."

Paynter was considerably uneasy at this alarming opening; but the poet
went on quite coolly, with his hands in his pockets and his feet thrust
out into the street.

"When a man has the power of a Sultan in Turkey, and uses it with the
ideas of a spinster in Tooting, I often wonder that nobody puts a knife
in him. I wish there were more sympathy for murderers, somehow. I'm very
sorry the poor old fellow's gone myself; but you gentlemen always seem
to forget there are any other people in the world. He's all right;
he was a good fellow, and his soul, I fancy, has gone to the happiest
paradise of all."

The anxious American could read nothing of the effect of this in the
dark Napoleonic face of the lawyer, who merely said: "What do you mean?"

"The fool's paradise," said Treherne, and drained his pot of cider.

The lawyer rose. He did not look at Treherne, or speak to him; but
looked and spoke straight across him to the American, who found the
utterance not a little unexpected.

"Mr. Paynter," said Ashe, "you thought it rather morbid of me to collect
murderers; but it's fortunate for your own view of the case that I
do. It may surprise you to know that Mr. Treherne has now, in my eyes,
entirely cleared himself of suspicion. I have been intimate with several
assassins, as I remarked; but there's one thing none of them ever did. I
never knew a murderer to talk about the murder, and then at once deny
it and defend it. No, if a man is concealing his crime, why should he go
out of his way to apologize for it?"

"Well," said Paynter, with his ready appreciation, "I always said you
were a remarkable man; and that's certainly a remarkable idea."

"Do I understand," asked the poet, kicking his heels on the cobbles,
"that both you gentlemen have been kindly directing me toward the
gallows?"

"No," said Paynter thoughtfully. "I never thought you guilty; and even
supposing I had, if you understand me, I should never have thought it
quite so guilty to be guilty. It would not have been for money or any
mean thing, but for something a little wilder and worthier of a man of
genius. After all, I suppose, the poet has passions like great unearthly
appetites; and the world has always judged more gently of his sins.
But now that Mr. Ashe admits your innocence, I can honestly say I have
always affirmed it."

The poet rose also. "Well, I am innocent, oddly enough," he said. "I
think I can make a