“Only a trifle,” answered Fair. “Just a quiet little—murder!” “That settles it,” shouted the good old fellow, thumping his knee with his clenched fist. “That settles it, sir. Sir Porter will have you in a straitjacket before night. Murder, eh? You burglar, forger, pirate—you!” Fair waited until Sir Nelson had had his laugh, and then said with irritating persistency: “Quite another sort of jacket, I think, sir.” “We’ll see, we’ll see,” retorted Sir Nelson, and then, abruptly changing the subject and his own expression, “but, I say, Fair, why have you never married Janet? She was, of course, free?” “I don’t wonder at the question,” Fair replied, relieved at the change. “That of course was the first question which presented itself to my mind. But by the time that Janet came back into my life the old love had passed away—or perhaps I should put it another way—the love I now found myself bearing for her was of a different sort. I am a Fair, you know, Sir Nelson, and destiny demanded that the passion of my life be not like those of ordinary men. So Janet seemed to come to me not as a woman whom I might think of as a wife, but as a holy, consecrated, crucifying Idea which fate had destined should be the ‘Fair Folly’ of this generation. I think you know that each generation in our family has had its ‘folly.’” “Yes,” answered Sir Nelson, shaking his head and letting his mind run back to the follies of the two generations of Fairs that he had known. “But your folly, my poor boy, has been so above the world’s standards of rational conduct that it is madness in our earthly eyes—or, perhaps, it is like the ‘foolishness of the saints,’ of which Saint Paul talks. But now, old hero—or madman—for reason’s sake, tell me of this accursed hallucination of yours—this blooming murder, you know. Have you killed the Pope or the Czar of Russia or Napoleon Bonaparte?” “I appreciate your inability to accept the truth,” replied Fair. “But you must do so when I have told you all. You see, I have murdered so seldom that I was forgetting to tell you the details. Well, Sir Nelson, the rascal whom I——” He was cut short by the sudden and alarming appearance of Kate Mettleby, who came running upon the terrace in traveling dress and quite out of breath. Both of the men rose and Sir Nelson watched Fair’s face with ill-disguised concern, which rapidly increased as Fair’s usual self-control gave place to evident uncontrollable nervousness and feverish excitement. “Oh—Mr.—Fair,” gasped Kate, trying to get her breath; “thank God, you are here! I was—afraid—that”—— “Miss Mettleby,” interrupted Fair, advancing to meet her, “I supposed that you were halfway to Paris by this time. What has happened? You look ill.” “Pardon me, sir,” answered Kate, “but—I’m out of breath—I ran.” “Do you mind letting me see this young lady alone, Sir Nelson?” asked Fair, noticing that Sir Nelson stood, dazed and troubled, watching them.