walking-tour—who’s going to suspect an innocent-looking pedestrian? But, having in the meantime read the newspapers, he works round, in his character of tourist, to the Sceptre, where I met him, and where, I confess, he thoroughly took me in. The murderer’s old trick, you see, of hanging round the scene of his crime, full of a morbid curiosity to know what’s been said and done. Nobody suspected this man in the slightest degree—I, myself, never dreamed of connecting him with this affair. He stayed his night at the Sceptre and went away, crossing these downs. And here!—here he met with this fatal accident, and if he hadn’t, and if we hadn’t found this, and those papers on him, I don’t believe we should ever have known who it was that killed Guy Markenmore! But—we know now.” He stooped down and drew the dead man’s soft cap more closely over his face. When he looked up again the Professor was still staring thoughtfully at the papers in his hands and Mr. Fransemmery, unusually grave, was watching him. But Harborough was already striding away through the trees, towards Valencia. End of Project Gutenberg's The Markenmore Mystery, by Joseph Smith Fletcher