The ironmaster dined with his head in a whirl. It was a remarkably good dinner that Thrush ordered, if as inappropriate to the occasion as to his own weight. His guest, however, knew no more what he was eating or drinking than he knew the names of the people in diamonds and white waistcoats who stared at the distraught figure in the country clothes. It even escaped his observation that the obese Thrush was an unblushing gourmet with a cynical lust for Burgundy. The conscious repast of Mr. Upton consisted entirely of the conversation of Eugene Thrush, and of that conversation only such portions as exploited his professional theories, and those theories only as bearing on the case in hand. He was merely bored when Thrush tried to distract him with some account of the murder in which he himself was only interested because his myrmidon happened to have discovered the body. What was the murder of some ragamuffin in Hyde Park to a man from the country who had lost his son? “I don’t see how your theory can work there,” he sighed, out of pure politeness, when Thrush paused to punish the wine. “It should work all right,” returned Thrush. “You take an absolutely worthless life; what do you do it for? It must be one of two motives: either you have a grudge against the fellow or his existence is a menace to you. Revenge or fear; he wants your money, or he’s taken your wife! But what revenge can there be upon a poor devil without the price of a bed on his indescribable person? He hasn’t anything to bless himself with, and he makes it a bit too hot for somebody who has, eh? So you whittle it down. And then perhaps by sheer luck you run your blade into the root of the matter.” Thrush gave up trying to take the other out of himself, since his boldest statements were allowed to pass unchallenged, unless they dealt with the one subject on the poor man’s mind. The cessation of his voice, however, caused a twinge of conscience in the bad listener; he made a mental grab at the last phrase, and was astonished to find it germane to his own thoughts. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned luck, Mr. Thrush!” “When was the first?” “You spoke of Friday as an unlucky day, as God knows this one is to me! Are you of a superstitious turn of mind?” “Not seriously.” “You don’t believe in dreams, for example?” “That’s another question,” said Thrush, his spectacles twinkling to colossal rubies as he sipped his Santenay. “Why do you ask?” “If you’re a disbeliever it’s no use my telling you.” “Perhaps I’m neither one thing nor the other.” “Have you ever known a mystery solved through a dream?” “I’ve heard of one,” said Thrush, with a significant stress upon the verb; “that’s the famous old murder in the Red Barn a hundred years ago. The victim’s mother dreamed three nights running that her missing daughter was buried in the Red Barn, and there she was all the time. There _may_ have been other cases.”