stood calling them monotonously upon a corner.

Again the car started with the investigator deep in the sheaf of
papers which he had purchased. Page after page failed to reveal
anything to his practised glance; at length he swept them to the floor
of the car. A smile was upon his lips--the smile of a man who had
received a nod of approval from Circumstances.

"The first edition of the morning dailies lacks interest," he said. "A
crime of some moment can be committed between midnight and dawn, and
not a line appear in type concerning it until the later issues."

Pendleton looked at him with mock disapproval.

"One would suppose," said he, "that you had expected to find some
such criminal narrative in those," and he indicated the discarded
newspapers.

"There were reasons why I should," answered Ashton-Kirk. "And very
good reasons, too. But," and he laughed a little, "for all that, I had
an indefinite sort of feeling that I should _not_ find it. This may
sound a trifle queer; but nevertheless it is true."

"The account was to have been of a murder," accused Pendleton. "I can
see it in your face, so don't take the trouble to deny it. I had
hoped that your plunge into what you styled the 'literature of
assassination' would not last--that a good night's rest would turn
your thoughts into another groove."

"Perhaps it would have been so," said Ashton-Kirk. "But things have