capital of, let us say, a foreign country,” or “a certain town not a thousand miles from where we are now sitting.” The majority of his friends, his methods being somewhat forensic, would seek to discourage him, but my aunt was a never wearied listener, especially if the case were one involving suspicion of mystery and crime. When, during their very first conversation, he exclaimed: “Now why--why, after keeping away from his wife for nearly eighteen years, never even letting her know whether he was alive or dead, why this sudden resolve to return to her? That is what I want explained to me!” he paused, as was his wont, for sympathetic comment, my aunt, instead of answering as others, with a yawn: “Oh, I'm sure I don't know. Felt he wanted to see her, I suppose,” replied with prompt intelligence: “To murder her--by slow poison.” “To murder her! But why?” “In order to marry the other woman.” “What other woman?” “The woman he had just met and fallen in love with. Before that it was immaterial to him what had become of his wife. This woman had said to him: 'Come back to me a free man or never see my face again.'” “Dear me! Now that's very curious.” “Nothing of the sort. Plain common sense.” “I mean, it's curious because, as a matter of fact, his wife did die a little later, and he did marry again.” “Told you so,” remarked my aunt. In this way every case in the Stillwood annals was reviewed, and light thrown upon it by my aunt's insight into the hidden springs of human action. Fortunate that the actors remained mere Mr. X. and Lady Y., for into the most innocent seeming behaviour my aunt read ever dark criminal intent. “I think you are a little too severe,” Mr. Gadley would now and then plead. “We're all of us miserable sinners,” my aunt would cheerfully affirm; “only we don't all get the same chances.” An elderly maiden lady, a Miss Z., residing in “a western town once famous as the resort of fashion, but which we will not name,” my aunt was convinced had burnt down a house containing a will, and forged another under which her children--should she ever marry and be blessed with such--would inherit among them on coming of age a fortune of seven hundred pounds. The freshness of her views on this, his favourite topic, always fascinated Mr. Gadley. “I have to thank you, ma'am,” he would remark on rising, “for a most delightful conversation. I may not be able to agree with your conclusions, but they afford food for reflection.” To which my aunt would reply, “I hate talking to any one who agrees with me. It's like taking a walk to see one's own looking-glass. I'd rather talk to somebody who didn't, even if he were a fool,” which for her was gracious.