they might have told you more."
"Judith Varlins is a very reserved woman."
"And Miss Marson?"
"I didn't see much of her," answered Roger, moodily, "nor did I wish to—a frivolous little minx, who came between me and my happiness. Well, there's nothing more to tell. After my rejection I left Ventnor for London, and ultimately came down here on a walking tour."
"You've not seen Miss Varlins since, I suppose?"
Again Roger turned away his head, and again the action is noted by Mr. Fanks.
"No," replied Axton, in a low voice. "I—I have not seen her since."
"Lie number two," thought Octavius, wonderingly. "What does it all mean? Do you correspond with her?" he asked, aloud.
"No! Confound it, Fanks, don't put me in the witness-box," cried Roger, rising to his feet.
"I beg your pardon, old fellow," said Octavius, meekly, "it's a habit I've got. A very bad one, I'm afraid. Well, I hope things will go well with you and the marriage with Miss Varlins will take place."
Roger, who was walking rapidly up and down the long room, now vanishing into the chill shadow, anon emerging into the warm lamp-light, stopped at the sound of the name and flung up his arms with a low cry of anguish.
"Never! never!" he cried bitterly, "I shall never marry her."
"Poor old chap, you do seem to be hard hit," said Octavius, sympathetically, "but hope for the best. Florry will marry her patent medicine man, and forget the scamp. Judith will marry you and forget Florry, so things will come out all straight in the long run."
"I hope so," said Axton, resuming his seat, rather ashamed of his emotion; "but they don't look very promising at present. Ah, well, it's no use fighting Destiny. Do you remember the grim view old Sophocles takes of that deity? A classic Juggernaut, crushing all who oppose her. I trust I won't be one of her victims, but I'm doubtful. However, now I've told you my story, what about your own?"
"Mine," said Mr. Fanks, lightly; "bless you, Roger, I'm like Canning's knife-grinder, I've got none to tell. As you know, I'm the eighth son of an impoverished country gentleman, hence my name, Octavius. All my brothers were put into the army, the navy, the Church, and all that sort of thing, so when my turn came to make a début in life there was nothing left for me to do. My father, at his wits' end, suggested the colonies, that refuge for destitute younger sons, but I didn't care about turning digger or sheep farmer, and positively refused to be exiled. I came up to London to look round, and made my choice. Being fond of puzzles and cryptograms, I thought I would turn my ingenuity in unravelling enigmas to practical account, and became a detective. The family cast me off; however, I didn't mind that. I left off the name of Rixton and took that of Fanks—my old school name, you remember—so I didn't disgrace the Rixtons of Derbyshire. Being a gentleman doesn't mean bread and butter in these democratic days; and though my pedigree's as long as the tail of a kite, it was quite as useless in a commercial sense. Besides, the detective business is just as honourable as any other, and also very exciting, so I don't regret having gone in for it. I get well paid also, and the life suits me."
"Is your father reconciled to you yet?"
"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
Roger Axton stood looking at the pill-box on the table, and Octavius Fanks stood looking at Roger Axton, the former lost in a fit of painful musing (evident from his pale face, his twitching lips, his startled expression), the latter keenly observant, according to his usual habits. At last Roger with a deep sigh drew his hand across his brow and resumed his seat, while Mr. Fanks, picking up the pill-box, gave it a cheerful rattle as he followed his example.
"What
