was--it was reported that--wasn't there something suspicious in his
death?"

Looking squarely now into the eyes of his patient, the physician
said: "Three years ago the body of your old enemy, Atwell Barton,
was found in the woods near his house and yours. He had been stabbed
to death. There have been no arrests; there was no clew. Some of us
had 'theories.' I had one. Have you?"

"I? Why, bless your soul, what could I know about it? You remember
that I left for Europe almost immediately afterward--a considerable
time afterward. In the few weeks since my return you could not
expect me to construct a 'theory.' In fact, I have not given the
matter a thought. What about his dog?"

"It was first to find the body. It died of starvation on his grave."

We do not know the inexorable law underlying coincidences. Staley
Fleming did not, or he would perhaps not have sprung to his feet as
the night wind brought in through the open window the long wailing
howl of a distant dog. He strode several times across the room in
the steadfast gaze of the physician; then, abruptly confronting him,
almost shouted: "What has all this to do with my trouble, Dr.
Halderman? You forget why you were sent for."

Rising, the physician laid his hand upon his patient's arm and said,
gently: "Pardon me. I cannot diagnose your disorder off-hand--to-
morrow, perhaps. Please go to bed, leaving your door unlocked; I
will pass the night here with your books. Can you call me without
rising?"