If you haven't
you'd better go to bed and sleep off your absurd suspicions."

One has to speak very plainly to Godfrey. Hints are simply wasted on
him. Even after my last remark he hesitated for a moment. Then he
turned and went.

I felt in the mood to write a short story which I have had in my mind
for some time. I very often write short stories; but have never yet
got an editor who cares to print any of them. The one I had in my mind
when Godfrey left me was, however, likely to be particularly good. It
was to be the autobiography of a murderer; not an ordinary murderer
who slays through desire of gain or in obedience to an inborn criminal
instinct. My murderer was to be a highly respectable, God-fearing man,
a useful citizen, a good father, a man of blameless life and almost
blameless thoughts, generous, high-principled, beloved. He was to slay
his victim with one of the fire-irons on his hearth. The murderous
impulse was to take possession of him quite suddenly but with
absolutely irresistible force. He was to kill a man who had been
boring him for hours. My intention was to write the story in such a
way as to win public sympathy for my murderer and to make every one
feel that the dead man deserved his fate. I meant to model the dead
man on my nephew Godfrey.

I still think that a very good short story might be written along
those lines, but I doubt whether I shall ever write it. I wrote about
two thousand words that morning before I was interrupted by the
luncheon gong. I was unable to go on writing after luncheon because
the conversation I had with Marion distracted my mind and turned my
thoughts to another subject.

"Father," she said, "do you think that Mr. Power could really have
been smuggling things in that yacht?"

"No," I said; "he couldn't possibly."

"It's very queer," said Marion.

"What's queer?"

"Oh, nothing. Only this morning Rose had a new gold brooch, quite a
handsome one."

Rose is Marion's maid, a pleasant and I believe efficient girl of
agreeable appearance.

"Even if Mr. Power was smuggling," I said, "it's exceedingly unlikely
that he'd bring in a cargo of gold brooches to give to the servants in
the district."

"Oh, I didn't mean that," said Marion. "In fact Rose told me that her
young man gave her the brooch. He's a very nice, steady young fellow
with a freckly face and he drives one of the carts for Crossan."

He must, I suspect, be the same young man who accused Godfrey of