e fairly seated.

"You see," he smiled, "I made bold to believe that you'd come with me,
and so had the dinner already ordered."

I looked at him without replying. I was completely in the dark. Could
this be the writer of the mysterious note? But what could his object
be? Above all, why should he so expose himself? He smiled again, as he
caught my glance.

"Of course you're puzzled," he said. "Well, I'll make a clean breast
of the matter at once. I wanted to talk with you about this Holladay
case, and I decided that a dinner at the Studio would be just the
ticket."

I nodded. The soup was a thing to marvel at.

"You were right," I assented. "The idea was a stroke of genius."

"I knew you'd think so. You see, since this morning, I've been making
rather a study of you. That coup of yours at the coroner's court this
afternoon was admirable--one of the best things I ever saw."

I bowed my acknowledgments.

"You were there, then?" I asked.

"Oh, yes; I couldn't afford to miss it."

"The color-blind theory was a simple one."

"So simple that it never occurred to anyone else. I think we're too
apt to overlook the simple explanations, which are, after all, nearly
always the true ones. It's only in books that we meet the reverse. You
remember it's Gaboriau who advises one always to distrust the
probable?"

"Yes. I don't agree with him."

"Nor I. Now take this case, for instance. I think it's safe to state
that murder, where it's not the result of sudden passion, is always
committed for one of two objects--revenge or gain. But Mr. Holladay's
past life has been pretty thoroughly probed by the reporters, and
nothing has been found to indicate that he had ever made a deadly
enemy, at least among the class of people who resort to murder--so
that does away with revenge. On the other hand, no one will gain by
his death--many will lose by it--in fact, the whole circle of his
associates will lose by it. It might seem, at first glance, that his
daughter would gain; but I think she loses most of all. She already
had all the money she could possibly need; and she's lost her father,
whom, it's quite certain, she loved dearly. So what remains?"

"Only one thing," I said, deeply interested in this exposition.
"Sudden passion."

He nodded exultantly.

"That's it. Now, who was the woman? From the first I was certain it
could not be his daughter--the very thought was preposterous. It seems
almost equally absurd, however, to