"Oh, yes, in a sort of a way; but the Vidocq business sticks in his throat and he can't swallow it. However, I visit the paternal acres sometimes, and no one thinks Octavius Rixton, gentleman, has anything to do with Octavius Fanks, detective." "And you like your profession?" "I adore it. Mystery has a wonderful charm for human nature, and there's a marvellous fascination in joining together a criminal puzzle. I've had all kinds of queer cases through my hands dealing with the seamy side of humanity, and have been uniformly successful with the lot. This affair, however, puzzles me dreadfully." "It's a horrible thing," said Roger, relighting his pipe, which had gone out. "I went for a long walk to-day so as to avoid the inquest." "Ah, you poets have not got strong nerves." "I'm afraid not. I hear the verdict was suicide." "Yes, and I don't agree with the verdict." Roger turned round quickly, and looked straight at his companion, who was staring absently at the fire. "Indeed," he said at length. "Why not?" "Eh! Oh, I don't know; I've got my reasons," replied Fanks, coolly, evidently not wishing to continue the subject. "By the way, how long are you going to stop here?" "Just for to-night; I'm off to-morrow." "So am I. London?" "No, I'm going to continue my walking tour." "Ah, sly dog," cried Fanks, gaily, "I understand. You are going to look up Miss Varlins again." Roger bit his nether lip hard, and replied, coldly, in a somewhat sober fashion, neither affirming nor denying the insinuation: "I won't find her down here at all events." "Oh! Then she's still at Ventnor?" "No! She and Miss Marson have gone home." "Really! And where is home?" "My dear Fanks, your cross-examination is most trying." "I beg your pardon," said Octavius, ceremoniously, "I was not aware I had asked an impertinent question." "Nor have you, my dear fellow," cried Axton, cordially. "Don't mind my bad temper, I can't help it. My nerves are all unstrung with this horrible business of the inquest. There's no reason why I should not tell you where Miss Varlins lives." "Oh, never mind," said Fanks, a trifle coldly; "I don't want to know." "Don't get offended at nothing, Octavius," replied Roger, in an injured tone; "I will tell you if it's only to make amends for my rudeness. Miss Varlins lives at Ironfields." The detective jumped to his feet with a sudden ejaculation, at which Axton also arose, looking pale and alarmed. "What's the matter, Fanks?" he asked, hurriedly. For answer, Octavius Fanks drew the pill-box from his pocket, and placing it silently on the table, pointed to the inscription on the lid: "Wosk & Co. Chemists, Ironfields." Chapter 3 Purely Theoretical