"I didn’t know that," said Payson. "But I did know there were no two thumbs alike. That’s the way they identified my partner when he was drowned. He was interested in the subject, having read of the Chinese method, and he happened to have a collection of thumb-prints, including his own, of course, done in India ink. His body was so disfigured and eaten by fishes that he couldn’t be recognized until, suspecting it might be he, we proved it by his own marks." "I didn’t know you ever had a partner." "Oh, that was years ago, soon after Cly was born. His name was Ichabod Riley. That was a queer story, too. His wife was a regular Jezebel, Madge Riley was, and there’s no doubt she poisoned her first two husbands. She was arrested and tried for the murder of the second, but the jury was hung, and she wasn’t. Ichabod was supposed to have been accidentally drowned off Black Point, but I have good reason to believe that he committed suicide on account of her. He was afraid of being poisoned as well. She is supposed to have killed her own baby, too. "Well," Mr. Payson added, rising, "I’ve got to go up-stairs and get ready for dinner. You’ll stay, won’t you?" "I’ll wait till Cly gets home, at any rate, but I’ll not promise to dine." The old man went up-stairs, leaving Cayley alone beside the bookcase. When he returned he found Cayley, cool and suave as ever. Clytie was with him, standing proudly erect on the other side of the room, a red, angry spot on either cheek. She held no dreamy, listless pose now; something had evidently fully awakened her, stinging her into an unaccustomed fervor. Her slender white hands were clasped in front of her, her bosom rose and fell. Her lips were tightly closed. Mr. Payson, near-sighted and egoistic, was oblivious of these stormy signs, and remarked genially: "You’re going to stay to dinner, aren’t you, Blanchard?" Blanchard Cayley drawled, "I think not, Mr. Payson; I’ll be going on, if you’ll excuse me," smiling, "and if Cly will." "Don’t let us keep you if you have another appointment," she said, without looking at him. He left after a few more words with the old man, who began at last to smell something wrong. "What’s the matter, Cly?" he asked. She had sat down and was pretending to read. Now she looked up casually: "Oh, nothing much, father, except that he was impertinent enough to question me about something that didn’t concern him." "H’m!" Mr. Payson took a seat with a grunt and unfolded his newspaper. "I’m sorry you two don’t get on any better." "We’d get on well enough if he’d only believe that when I say ’no’ I mean it." He stared at her, suddenly possessed by a new thought. "Is there anybody else in the field, Cly?" "There are many other men that I prefer to Blanchard Cayley." "What is this about your being with this palmist chap?" "Did Blanchard tell you that?" she asked with exquisite scorn. "Have you seen much of this Granthope?" "I’ve seen him four times."