"Yes, memoirs of Vidocq--Stories of Robbery and Murder, The Newgate Chronicle, and Jonathan Wilde; his library is filled with gruesome volumes of that kind. Did you ever hear of Selwyn the wit, the friend of Horace Walpole, Miss Crane?" "No," murmured Miriam, self-possessed but colourless to the lips. "His great delight was to see men hanged. My uncle seems to have the same queer taste. If public executions were in vogue I believe he would attend every one." "John," called out the Squire, "what are you saying to Miss Crane? You're making her nervous, surely; she has lost all her colour." "No, no," cried Miriam; "I am quite well." "What a brute I am," said Dundas aloud; "but the fact is I was talking of your penchant for crime." "Oh yes," said Mrs. Darrow vivaciously; "it's really horrid of Uncle Barton to be so fond of these things." "Crime!" chuckled the Squire; "and what do you call crime? I'm a student of human nature in the depths, if that's what you mean. I like to search out the springs of action--to learn what moves man, the machine." "In short, you are a realist, uncle," said Gerald. "Oh, I don't know. I find the lower orders vastly more amusing than the higher, if you call that realism. I like to explore the slums and the thieves' kitchens, and talk to the detectives; and I like to hear of crimes that are impenetrable." And here his eyes rested on Miriam. She drank more wine. "But I thought no crime was impenetrable nowadays," said Hilda. "Indeed, my dear Miss Marsh, a great number are. Those crimes which are reported in the newspapers, those murderers who are hanged, constitute the minority. The clever crimes, the really interesting criminals, are never discovered." Mrs. Darrow here entered a protest. She would not sleep she said if Uncle Barton thus rode his gruesome hobby, which was really a skeleton horse, or something horrid. She did think such things should not be spoken about in the presence of ladies; Miss Crane was quite pale with horror, so she would leave the gentlemen to discuss their wine and crime together, and carry the ladies off to the drawing-room--a determination which she at once put into execution. When the door closed on them, Mr. Barton became moody and silent. He left Gerald and Dundas to pass the bottle and do the talking; and knowing his sombre humours they left him to himself. Shortly there entered a plethoric butler, purple of hue, as though all the blood in him had turned to port wine. He bent over his master and whispered. "Eh? What do you say?" said Barton, rousing himself from a brown study. "A gentleman to see you, sir!" whispered the man in a husky voice. "Who is it?" "The gentleman who was here before, sir." "Confound you--how can I recognise anyone from that description? What's his name?" "I don't rightly know, sir. He told me to mention the name Jabez."