Basil Grant shook all over with a sort of silent laughter, but did
not otherwise move.

"That's rather good," he said; "but, of course, logic like that's
not what is really wanted. It's a question of spiritual atmosphere.
It's not a criminal letter."

"It is. It's a matter of fact," cried the other in an agony of
reasonableness.

"Facts," murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange, far-off
animals, "how facts obscure the truth. I may be silly--in fact,
I'm off my head--but I never could believe in that man--what's his
name, in those capital stories?--Sherlock Holmes. Every detail
points to something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing.
Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands
of twigs on a tree. It's only the life of the tree that has unity
and goes up--only the green blood that springs, like a fountain,
at the stars."

"But what the deuce else can the letter be but criminal?"

"We have eternity to stretch our legs in," replied the mystic. "It
can be an infinity of things. I haven't seen any of them--I've
only seen the letter. I look at that, and say it's not criminal."

"Then what's the origin of it?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea."