the several
shots which the old housekeeper had heard fired. He had discharged the
revolver at these times in order to watch the effect and immediately
place his impressions on the pieces of paper I now held in my hand. My
knowledge of Godfrey Huntingdon--both medically and fraternally--told me
that, at the time of his death, there was positively nothing on his mind
to cause such an act, and I now began reasoning the whole within myself
once again, as I had done many times since the occurrence.

"It's a mystery--a terrible mystery!" I exclaimed, jumping up and
commencing to pace the room. I walked that room for over an hour, and
was only aroused from my reverie by the announcement of a servant that
supper was served. I ate my meal in silence, and the deliberate
mouthfuls I took, and my more than ordinarily methodical manner of
eating, must have told my wife that to disturb my present inward
argument would have been disastrous to the immediate prospects of
domestic harmony. I had come to a conclusion. There is nothing like
science and its accompanying occupations for balancing a man's brain. A
game of chess is recreative concentration. So the study of science was
with me, whilst physic was my profession. Scientific research and the
weighing of Nature's problems had steadied my thoughts and cooled my
actions. It was a settled thing with me that poor Huntingdon had been
murdered. By whom? Scientific investigation had transformed me into a
calculating individual. Every action, to me, could be proved as a
proposition in Euclid or an algebraical problem. I therefore said
nothing about my startling discovery, and decided to wait the
possibility of a further suggestion coming in my way, and "proving it."

I suppose it was the deep interest I took in all matters concerning art
which brought so many artist-patients to my consulting room. Six months
had passed since the fatal 11th October, and the public were loudly
expressing their approval of a marvellously impressive bit of painting
by Wilfred Colensoe, which was the feature--and very justly so--of one
of the early spring exhibitions. It was the picture of a duel--a very
realistic canvas indeed. The young man--lying bleeding on the
ground--almost told the story of the attempted avenge of an action
towards someone dear to him on the part of an elderly _roue_, whose
still-smoking revolver was in his hand. Colensoe came to see me one
morning. He was a remarkably handsome man, cl