occupied," remarked Juliet,
with something of her old gaiety of manner; and, in fact, though I held
the paper in my hand, my gaze was fixed unmeaningly on an adjacent
lamp-post. As she spoke, I pulled myself together, and, scanning the
paper hastily, was fortunate enough to find in the first paragraph
matter requiring comment.

"I observe, Mrs. Hornby," I said, "that in answer to the first question,
'Whence did you obtain the "Thumbograph"?' you say, 'I do not remember
clearly; I think I must have bought it at a railway bookstall.' Now I
understood that it was brought home and given to you by Walter himself."

"That was what I thought," replied Mrs. Hornby, "but Walter tells me
that it was not so, and, of course, he would remember better than I
should."

"But, my dear aunt, I am sure he gave it to you," interposed Juliet.
"Don't you remember? It was the night the Colleys came to dinner, and we
were so hard pressed to find amusement for them, when Walter came in and
produced the 'Thumbograph.'"

"Yes, I remember quite well now," said Mrs. Hornby. "How fortunate that
you reminded me. We must alter that answer at once."

"If I were you, Mrs. Hornby," I said, "I would disregard this paper
altogether. It will only confuse you and get you into difficulties.
Answer the questions that are put, as well as you can, and if you don't
remember, say so."

"Yes, that will be much the wisest plan," said Juliet. "Let Dr. Jervis
take charge of the paper and rely on your own memory." "Very well, my
dear," replied Mrs. Hornby, "I will do what you think best, and you can
keep the paper, Dr. Jervis, or throw it away."

I slipped the document into my pocket without remark, and we proceeded
on our way, Mrs. Hornby babbling inconsequently, with occasional
outbursts of emotion, and Juliet silent and abstracted. I struggled to
concentrate my attention on the elder lady's conversation, but my
thoughts continually reverted to the paper in my pocket, and the
startling solution that it seemed to offer of the mystery of the
poisoned cigar.

Could it be that Walter Hornby was in reality the miscreant X? The thing
seemed incredible, for, hitherto, no shadow of suspicion had appeared to
fall on him. And yet there was no denying that his description tallied
in a very remarkable manner with that of the hypothetical X. He was a
man of some means and social position; he was a man of considerable
knowledge and mechanical skill, though as to his ing