"I reason by analogy," he said. "My landlady has very few visitors. You are here for the first time, with an object. You remain closeted with her for hours. She probably sent for you. During the long interview down-stairs you have been told a great deal about me. You hear me open the street-door, and you know I am in the house. My landlady has a trouble on her mind, and mixes me up with it. You have been made acquainted with this trouble and with my supposed connection with it. Your curiosity has been aroused, and you determine to seek an interview with me before you take your leave of her. You come up uninvited, and here you are, as I expected. Am I logical?" "Quite logical." "In a common-sense view of commonplace matters--and everything in the world is commonplace--lies the ripest wisdom. Follow my example. Exercise your common sense." But I did not immediately speak. Devlin's words were so different from what I had expected that I was for a moment at a loss. The prospect of my being able to bring the murderer of Lizzie Melladew to justice and of earning a thousand pounds did not appear so bright. "I will assist you," he resumed; "I will endeavour to set you at your ease with me. Your scrutiny of me has been very searching; I ought to feel flattered. What anticipations of my appearance you may have entertained before you entered the room is your affair, not mine. How far they are realised is your affair, not mine. But allow me to assure you, my dear sir," and here he rose to his full height, and made me a half-humorous, half-mocking bow, "that I am a very ordinary person." "That cannot be," I said, "after what I have heard." "It is the destiny," he said, resuming his seat, "of greater personages than myself to be ranked much higher than they deserve. Proceed." "I am here to speak to you about this murder," I said, plunging boldly into the subject. "Ah, about a murder! But there are so many." "You know to which one I refer. The murder of a young girl in Victoria Park, which took place the night before last." "I have heard and read of it," said Devlin. "You know also," I continued, "that the tragedy has produced in Mr. Lemon a condition of mind and body which may lead to dangerous results, probably to a despairing death." "All men must die," he said cynically. I was now thoroughly aroused. "I have come to you for an explanation," I said, "and it must be a satisfactory one." "You speak like an inquisitor," said Devlin, with a quiet smile, and I seemed to detect in his altered manner a desire to irritate me and to drive me into an excess of passion. For this reason I kept myself cool, and simply said, "I am resolved." "Good. Keep resolved."