"It's a fine profession that of a detective, but one gets tired of commonplace murders; this, however, isn't a commonplace murder. Query. Is it a murder at all? Jury say 'No.' I say 'Yes'--eh! I wonder who is right! Egotism on my part, probably, but I believe in my own idea. Why should a man come down to this out-of-the-way place to die? Why should he take the trouble to explain that he intends to stop here for a week if he intended to commit suicide? No! I can't and won't believe it's suicide. As to that theory of Carr's, that he brought just enough morphia to poison himself. Rubbish! Suicides don't take so much trouble as a rule. My belief," continued Mr. Fanks, reflectively, "my belief is that he took something innocently and it killed him. Now what would he take innocently? These pills, of course! Yet, if they killed him, it would be arsenic, not morphia. Hang it, what the deuce does it all mean?" There being no answer to this question, he caught his chin between his finger and thumb, staring hard at the fire meanwhile, as if thereby to solve his doubts. A hard case, this Jarlchester Mystery; a difficult case; and yet it fascinated Mr. Fanks by its very difficulty. He was fond of difficulties, this young man. In his childish days, Chinese puzzles--most perplexing of mysteries--had been his delight. As a schoolboy, he adored algebraical problems and newspaper cryptograms, so now in his early manhood he found his true vocation in solving those inexplicable enigmas which the criminal classes, and very often the non-criminal classes--principally the latter--present to the world for solution. Mr. Fanks was suddenly aroused from his problematical musings by the sudden opening of the door, and on turning his head with a start, saw it was being closed by a tall young man, who immediately afterwards advanced slowly towards the fire. "As this is the warmest room in the house," said the new-comer, carelessly, "I've ventured to intrude my company upon you for an hour or so." "Very pleased, indeed," murmured Mr. Fanks, pushing his chair to one side, so as to allow the stranger to have a fair share of the fire. "It's dull work sitting alone." This movement on the part of Mr. Fanks and the sitting down of the stranger brought both their faces within the mellow radiance of the lamp, whereupon a sudden look of recognition flashed into the eyes of each. "Roger Axton!" cried the detective, springing to his feet. "Fanks!" said the other, also rising and cordially clasping the hand held out to him. "My dear old schoolfellow!" "And your dear old schoolfellow's nickname also," remarked Fanks, as they shook hands heartily. "What a curious coincidence, to be sure! It is only the mountains that never meet." "Ten years ago," said Axton, resuming his seat with a sigh. "Ten years ago, Octavius!"