"Precisely," says Mr. Dalrymple. "I am a principal clerk in the Home Office, and I come to you in your capacity as justice of the peace. Lord Wolstenholme, our Secretary, noticed that you generally acted as chairman of the bench of magistrates, and therefore decided that you were the proper person to be communicated with." Mr. Carruthers's attention, which has been wandering a little--his eyes are still attracted by his visitor's beard, and he is wondering how long it has been growing, and why it should be, as it is, of two distinct shades of brown--is recalled by these words, and he mutters that he is obliged to his lordship for his opinion. "Now, my dear Mr. Carruthers," says Mr. Dalrymple, bending forward in his chair, dropping his voice to a whisper, and looking slyly from under his bushy eyebrows, "will you allow me to ask you a question? Can you keep a secret?" Mr. Carruthers is taken aback. From his magisterial and country-gentleman position he looks upon secrets as things exclusively appertaining to the vulgar, as connected with conspiracies, plots, swindles, and other indictable offences. Considering, however, that the matter is brought under his notice in connection with the Home Office, he thinks he may venture to answer in the affirmative, and does accordingly. "Ex-actly," says Mr. Dalrymple. "I knew your answer before I put the question; but in these little matters it is absolutely necessary to have perfect accuracy. Now then to the point--we are quite out of earshot? Thank you! No chance of any one listening at the doors?" Mr. Carruthers says "No," with an expression of face which says he should very much like to catch any one there. "Pre-cisely! Now, my dear Mr. Carruthers, I will at once put you in possession of Lord Wolstenholme's views. The fact is, that a murder has been committed, under rather peculiar circumstances, and his lordship wants your assistance in investigating the matter." Mr. Carruthers is all attention in an instant. Every trace of preoccupation has vanished. His visitor's beard has no kind of attraction for him now, though it is wagging close before his eyes. A murder! The worst case he had ever investigated was a doubtful manslaughter arising out of a poaching affray, and for his remarks on that he had been highly complimented in the local press; but here is murder--and his aid is enlisted by the Home Office!