“I think you’ve guessed it, Nesbitt,” remarked Doyle, regarding his future brother-in-law closely. “He has committed a murder. How awkward for him! Now I come to look at him, he has got a criminal face, hasn’t he? I wonder what type he belongs to. The Palmer, would you say? He has that look of chubby innocence. But no, he’s too big and massive. Now, who. . . ? Smith, perhaps? Smith was always the gent, wasn’t he?” He prattled on happily. Thus great events from causes small do spring. In Guy’s eyes an eager light had appeared, the light that must have gleamed in Stanley’s eyes when he pretended to greet Livingstone so nonchalantly. “I say, Doyle,” he said in hushed tones, “you’re not—you’re not interested in criminology, are you?” The light leaped into Doyle’s eyes. He looked at his host with reverence and awe. “Are you?” he asked, in the same cathedral-like voice. “Yes. I’ve never met any one else who was before.” “Neither have I!” They gazed at each other in ecstasy. “What’s your real opinion of the Thompson case?” Guy managed to whisper. “I heard an awfully interesting theory about the Mahon case,” whispered Doyle at the same moment. Cynthia coughed gently, “Have I caught your eye, Dawks? This, I think, is where we three gracefully retire.” They did so. “Do _you_ think Seddon ought to have been convicted?” murmured Doyle, closing the door as absently as he had opened it. “Have you read the MacLachlan trial?” murmured Guy absently, producing cigars. “The character of old Fleming is most absorbing. Of course he did it.” They opened the flood-gates of their hobby and the long pent tide poured forth. For a time George listened with interest, for murders, dash it, are interesting, say what you like. Then he listened with less interest, for murders, hang it, are a bit what-you-might-call boring, taken in the mass; a good juicy mystery with his morning-paper George enjoyed as much as any one, but one, in George’s opinion, was enough at a time. Besides, after a fellow had done some one in and been well and truly hanged for it, what on earth was there to go on yapping about? George listened with growing boredom. “What about a foursome to-morrow morning, Guy?” said George. “We can get Dawks to make up the four. She doesn’t play at all too badly.” “When are your sister and brother-in-law coming, Guy?” said George. “I say, hadn’t we better be getting into the drawing-room?” said George. “They’ll be wondering what’s happened to us.” He might have saved himself the trouble; for when two or three criminologists are gathered together, then is for them neither time nor space, sweetheart nor wife, necessity nor law. They talked on. “I say,” said George, nerving himself for a supreme effort, “I’m getting a bit fed up with all this chat about murder.”