rty years ago."

"Oh, yes, that's all right," said Hurd, producing a dainty silver
cigarette case, which was part of his "get-up." "Mrs. Krill is the widow
of the murdered man, and the silly way in which the will has been made
gives the five thousand a year to her daughter, whom Mrs. Krill has
under her thumb. It's all right as I say. But I shouldn't be surprised
to learn that there were circumstances in Aaron Norman's past life which
led him to leave his wife, and which may lead Mrs. Krill into buying
silence by giving Miss Norman half the income. You could live on two
thousand odd a year, eh?"

"Not obtained in that way," said Beecot, filling his pipe and passing a
match to Hurd. "If the money comes legally to Sylvia, well and good;
otherwise she will have nothing to do with it."

Hurd looked round the bleak garret expressively and shrugged his
shoulders again. "I think you are wrong, Mr. Beecot. You can't bring her
here."

"No. But I may make enough money to give her a better home."

"Can I help you?"

"I don't see how you can. I want to be an author."

"Well," said Hurd, whose British speech was in strange contrast to his
foreign appearance, "it's not a bad game to be an author if you get a
good serial connection. Oh, don't look surprised. I know about
newspapers and publishers as I know about most things. See here, Mr.
Beecot, have you ever tried your hand at a detective story?"

"No. I write on a higher level."

"You won't write on a more paying level," replied Hurd, coolly. "I know
a newspaper which will give you--if I recommend you, mind--one hundred
pounds for a good detective yarn. You apply for it."

"But I couldn't make up one of those plots--so intricate."

"Pooh. It's a trick. You set your puppets in such and such a way and
then mix them up. I'll give you the benefit of my experience as a 'tec,
and with my plot and your own writing we'll be able to knock up a story
for the paper I talk of. Then, with one hundred pounds you'll have a
nest-egg to start with."

"I accept with gratitude," said Beecot, moved, "but I really don't know
why you should trouble about me."

"Because you're a white man and an honorable gentleman," said the
detective, emphatically. "I've got a dear little wife of my own, and
she's something like this poor Miss Norman. Then again, though you
mightn't think so, I'm something of a Christian, and believe we should
help others. I had a hard life, Mr. Beecot, before I became