'Couldn't have a better one,' said Caffyn, inwardly chafing; but he always made a point of obliging his uncle, and for once he had no reason to consider his time thrown away. For, as they walked on together in the direction of the Edgware Road, where the old gentleman intended to take the Underground to King's Cross, Mr. Humpage, after some desultory conversation on various subjects, said suddenly, 'By the way, you know a good many of these writing fellows, Harold--have you ever come across one called Mark Ashburn?' 'I've met him once,' said Caffyn, and his brows contracted. 'Wrote this new book, "Illusion," didn't he?' 'Yes, he did--confound him!' said the other warmly, and then launched into the history of his wrongs. 'Perhaps I oughtn't to say it at my age,' he concluded, 'but I hate that fellow!' 'Do you though?' said Caffyn with a laugh; 'it's a singular coincidence, but so do I.' 'There's something wrong about him, too,' continued the old man; 'he's got a secret.' ('So have most of us!' thought his nephew.) 'But what makes you think so?' he asked aloud, and waited for the answer with some interest. 'I saw it in the fellow's face; no young man with a clear record ever has such a look as he had when I came in. He was green with fear, sir; perfectly green!' 'Is that all?' and Caffyn was slightly disappointed. 'You know, I don't think much of that. He might have taken you for a dun, or an indignant parent, or something of that sort; he may be one of those nervous fellows who start at anything, and you came there on purpose to give him a rowing, didn't you?' 'Don't talk to me,' said the old man impatiently; 'there's not much nervousness about _him_--he's as cool and impudent a rascal as ever I saw when he's nothing to fear. It was guilt, sir, guilt. You remember that picture of the Railway Station, and the look on the forger's face when the detectives lay hold of him at the carriage door? I saw that very look on young Ashburn's face before I'd spoken a dozen words.' 'What were the words?' said Caffyn. 'Proceed, good uncle, as we say in our profession; you interest me much!' 'I'm sure I forget what I said--I was out of temper, I remember that. I think I began by asking him for the real name of the author of the book.' Again Caffyn was disappointed. 'Of course he was in a funk then; he knew he had put you into it. So you say at least; I've not read the book myself.' 'It wasn't that at all, I tell you,' persisted the old man obstinately; 'you weren't there, and I was. D'ye think I don't know better than you? He's not the man to care for that. When he found what I'd really come about he was cool enough. No, no, he's robbed, or forged, or something, at some time or other, take my word for it--and I only hope I shall live to see it brought home to him!'