as always a silly ass about women," rejoined Langholm's critic,
summing up the man. "So it's Mrs. Minchin now!"

The name acted like magic upon young Severino. His attention had
wandered. In an instant it was more eager than before.

"If you don't know where he lives in the country," he burst out, "where
is he staying in town?"

"We don't know that either."

"Then I mean to find out!"

And the pale musician rushed from the room, in pursuit of the man who
had been all day pursuing him.

CHAPTER XXII

THE DARKEST HOUR

The amateur detective walked slowly up to Piccadilly, and climbed on top
of a Chelsea omnibus, a dejected figure even to the casual eye. He was
more than disappointed at the upshot of his wild speculations, and in
himself for the false start that he had made. His feeling was one of
positive shame. It was so easy now to see the glaring improbability of
the conclusion to which he had jumped in his haste, at the first
promptings of a too facile fancy. And what an obvious idea it had been
at last! As if his were the only brain to which it could have occurred!

Langholm could have laughed at his late theory if it had only entailed
the loss of one day, but it had also cost him that self-confidence which
was the more valuable in his case through not being a common
characteristic of the man. He now realized the difficulties of his
quest, and the absolutely wrong way in which he had set about it. His
imagination had run away with him. It was no case for the imagination.
It was a case for patient investigation, close reasoning, logical
deduction, all arts in which the imaginative man is almost inevitably
deficient.

Langholm, however, had enough lightness of temperament to abandon an
idea as readily as he formed one, and his late suspicion was already
driven to the four winds. He only hoped he had not shown what was in his
mind at the club. Langholm was a just man, and he honestly regretted the
injustice that he had done, even in his own heart, and for ever so few
hours, to a thoroughly innocent man.

And all up Piccadilly this man was sitting within a few inches of him,
watching his face with a passionate envy, and plucking up courage to
speak; he only did so at Hyde Park Corner, where an intervening
passenger got down.

Langholm was sufficiently startled at the sound of his own name,
breaking in upon the reflections indicated, but to find at his elbow the
very face which was in his mind was