h?"

Mr. Whitmore ignored the question. "I'm ready for a hand, Miss
Belcher," he announced quietly: "only let it be something quiet--a
rubber for choice."

"Half-guinea points?" asked somebody.

"Yes, if you will."

I heard them settle to cards, and their voices sink to a murmur.
Now and again a few coins clinked, and one of the guests yawned.

"You're as melancholy as gib-cats," announced Miss Belcher.
"The next that yawns, I'll send him out to fetch in that badger.
Tell us a story, somebody."

"I heard the beginning of a queer one," said Mr. Whitmore in his
deliberate voice. "The folks were discussing it at Torpoint Ferry as
I crossed. There's, been a murder at Plymouth, either last night or
this morning."

"A murder? Who's the victim?"

"An old Jew, living on the Barbican or thereabouts. My deal, is it
not?"

"What's his name?"

"His name?" Mr. Whitmore seemed to be considering. "Wait a moment,
or I shall misdeal." After a pause, he said, "A Spanish-sounding
one--Rodriguez, I think. They were all full of it at the Ferry."

"What! Old Ike Rodriguez? Why, he was down in these parts buying up
guineas the other day!" exclaimed Mr. Rogers.

"Was he?"

"Why, hang it all, Whitmore," said a guest, "you know he was!
More by token I pointed him out to you myself on Looe hill."

"Was that the man?"

"Of course it was. Don't you remember admiring his face? It put you
in mind of Caiaphas--those were your very words, and at the moment I
didn't clearly recollect who Caiaphas was. It can't be three weeks
since."

"Three weeks less two days," said Miss Belcher; "for he called here
and bought fifteen off me: gave me twenty-four shillings and sixpence
apiece for all but one, which he swore was light. Who's murdered
him?"

"There was talk of a boy," said Mr. Whitmore, still very
deliberately. "At least, a boy was missing who had been seen in the
house just previously, and they were watching the ferries for him.
Why, surely, Rogers, that's a revoke!"

"A revoke?" stammered Mr. Rogers. "So it is--I beg your pardon,
Tregaskis! Damn the cards! I'm too sleepy to tell one suit from
another."

"That makes our game then, and the rubber. Rub and rub--shall we
play the conqueror? No? As you please then. How do we stand?"

"We owe three guineas on points," growled a voice which, to judge by
its sulkiness, belonged to Mr. Tregaskis.

"I'm a clumsy fool," Mr. Rogers again accused himself. "Here,