l me anything--he didn't seem
to know what I was wanted for, and he wasn't at all nice--not at all."

"I expect your evidence will relate to the 'Thumbograph,'" I said.
"There is really nothing else in connection with the case that you have
any knowledge of."

"That is just what Walter said," exclaimed Mrs. Hornby. "I went to his
rooms to talk the matter over with him. He is very upset about the whole
affair, and I am afraid he thinks very badly of poor Reuben's prospects.
I only trust he may be wrong! Oh dear! What a dreadful thing it is, to
be sure!" Here the poor lady halted to mop her eyes elaborately, to the
surprise and manifest scorn of a passing errand boy.

"He was very thoughtful and sympathetic--Walter, I mean, you know,"
pursued Mrs. Hornby, "and most helpful. He asked me all I knew about
that horrid little book, and took down my answers in writing. Then he
wrote out the questions I was likely to be asked, with my answers, so
that I could read them over and get them well into my head. Wasn't it
good of him! And I made him print them with his machine so that I could
read them without my glasses, and he did it beautifully. I have the
paper in my pocket now."

"I didn't know Mr. Walter went in for printing," I said. "Has he a
regular printing press?"

"It isn't a printing press exactly," replied Mrs. Hornby; "it is a small
thing with a lot of round keys that you press down--Dickensblerfer, I
think it is called--ridiculous name, isn't it? Walter bought it from one
of his literary friends about a week ago; but he is getting quite clever
with it already, though he does make a few mistakes still, as you can
see." She halted again, and began to search for the opening of a
pocket which was hidden away in some occult recess of her clothing, all
unconscious of the effect that her explanation had produced on me. For,
instantly, as she spoke, there flashed into my mind one of the points
that Thorndyke had given me for the identification of the mysterious X.
"He has probably purchased, quite recently, a second-hand
Blickensderfer, fitted with a literary typewheel." The coincidence was
striking and even startling, though a moment's reflection convinced me
that it was nothing more than a coincidence; for there must be hundreds
of second-hand "Blicks" on the market, and, as to Walter Hornby, he
certainly could have no quarrel with Thorndyke, but would rather be
interested in his preservation on Reuben's account.

The