“Perhaps not,” said Rupert, getting into his fur coat. “One never knows. But going down a dark court to see criminals--” “Do you think they are criminals?” asked his brother. Rupert laughed stoutly. “Giving orders to a subordinate to strangle a harmless stranger in a coal-cellar may strike you as a very blameless experiment, but--” “Do you think they wanted to strangle the Major?” asked Basil, in the same distant and monotonous voice. “My dear fellow, you've been asleep. Look at the letter.” “I am looking at the letter,” said the mad judge calmly; though, as a matter of fact, he was looking at the fire. “I don't think it's the sort of letter one criminal would write to another.” “My dear boy, you are glorious,” cried Rupert, turning round, with laughter in his blue bright eyes. “Your methods amaze me. Why, there is the letter. It is written, and it does give orders for a crime. You might as well say that the Nelson Column was not at all the sort of thing that was likely to be set up in Trafalgar Square.” Basil Grant shook all over with a sort of silent laughter, but did not otherwise move. “That's rather good,” he said; “but, of course, logic like that's not what is really wanted. It's a question of spiritual atmosphere. It's not a criminal letter.” “It is. It's a matter of fact,” cried the other in an agony of reasonableness. “Facts,” murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange, far-off animals, “how facts obscure the truth. I may be silly--in fact, I'm off my head--but I never could believe in that man--what's his name, in those capital stories?--Sherlock Holmes. Every detail points to something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree. It's only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up--only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars.” “But what the deuce else can the letter be but criminal?” “We have eternity to stretch our legs in,” replied the mystic. “It can be an infinity of things. I haven't seen any of them--I've only seen the letter. I look at that, and say it's not criminal.” “Then what's the origin of it?” “I haven't the vaguest idea.” “Then why don't you accept the ordinary explanation?” Basil continued for a little to glare at the coals, and seemed collecting his thoughts in a humble and even painful way. Then he said: “Suppose you went out into the moonlight. Suppose you passed through silent, silvery streets and squares until you came into an open and deserted space, set with a few monuments, and you beheld one dressed as a ballet girl dancing in the argent glimmer. And suppose you looked, and saw it was a man disguised. And suppose you looked again, and saw it was Lord Kitchener. What would you think?” He paused a moment, and went on: