neighbourhood. It was just before I left for my year of travel. I got to
know him rather well. He gave me several hints on wrestling."

"Did he teach you how to break your opponent's neck?" asked Sir
Beverley drily.

Piers made a slight, scarcely perceptible movement of one hand. It
clenched upon the paper he held. "They were--worth knowing," he said,
with his eyes upon the sheet. "But I should have thought he was too old a
hand himself to get into trouble."

Sir Beverley grunted. Piers read on. At the end of a lengthy pause he
laid the paper aside. "I'm beastly rude," he remarked. "Have a crumpet!"

"Eat 'em yourself!" said Sir Beverley. "I hate 'em!"

Piers picked up the plate and began to eat. He stared at the blaze as he
did so, obviously lost in thought.

"Don't dream!" said Sir Beverley sharply.

He turned his eyes upon his grandfather's face--those soft Italian eyes
of his so suggestive of hidden fire. "I wasn't--dreaming," he said
slowly. "I wonder why you think Adderley ought to be hanged."

"Because he's a murderer," snapped Sir Beverley.

"Yes; but--" said Piers, and became silent as though he were following
out some train of thought.