dered at my manner.
The fact is Mr.--er----"

"Carrington."

"Mr. Carrington, that I'm in a most awful position at present. You know
of course that I'm suspected of murder!"

"No!" exclaimed Carrington, with vast interest. "Not really?"

"It's an absolute fact--suspected of murder! Good God, just imagine it!"

The young baronet stopped and faced his new acquaintance dramatically.
In spite of his nervousness, it was evident that his notoriety had
compensations.

"Yes," he said, "I--the head of an ancient and honourable house--am
actually suspected of having murdered my cousin, Sir Reginald Cromarty!"

"What, that murder!" exclaimed Carrington. "By Jove, of course, I've
heard a lot about the case. And you are really suspected?"

"So much so," said the baronet darkly, "that when you touched me on the
shoulder I actually thought you were going to arrest me!"

Carrington seemed equally astounded and penitent at this unfortunate
reading of his simple and natural action in stepping suddenly out of the
dark and tapping a nervous stranger on the shoulder.

"How very tactless of me!" he repeated more than once. "Really, I must
be more careful another time!"

And then he suddenly turned his monocle on to the baronet and enquired:

"But how do you know you are suspected?"

"How do I know! My God, all fingers are pointing at me! Even in my club
in London I feel I am a marked man. I have discussed my awful position
with all my friends, and by this time they tell me that everybody else
knows too!"

"That is--er--not unnatural," said Carrington drily. "But how did you
first learn?"

The young man's voice fell almost to a whisper and he glanced
apprehensively over his shoulder as he spoke.

"I knew I should be suspected the moment I heard of the crime! The very
night before--perhaps at the actual moment when the deed was being
done--I did a foolish thing!"

"You don't say so!" exclaimed his new friend with every appearance of
surprise.

"Yes, you may not believe me, but I acted like a damned silly ass. Mind
you, I am not as a rule a silly ass," the baronet added with dignity,
"but that night I actually confided in a woman!"

"What woman?"'

"My relative Miss Cicely Farmond--a charming girl, I may mention; there
was every excuse for me, still it was a rotten thing to do, I quite
admit. I told her that I was hard up and feeling desperate, and I even
said I was going to sit up late! And on top of that Sir Reginald