He was that rare thing in a new land, a decadent, a connoisseur in vice,
a lover of opiates and of liquor. He was young enough yet not to be
incapacitated by it. His face and hands were white and a little flabby,
and he wore his hair rather long, which, it is said, accounts for the
weakness of some men, on the assumption that long hair wastes the
strength. But Burlingame quickly remembered the attitude of the lady--
Crozier's wife, he was certain--and of Crozier in the dining-room a few
moments before, and to his suspicious eyes it was not characteristic of
a happy family party. No doubt this grimness of Crozier was due to
domestic trouble and not wholly to his own presence. Still, he felt
softly for the tiny pistol he always carried in his big waistcoat pocket,
and it comforted him.

Beyond the corner of the house Crozier paused and took a key from his
pocket. It opened a side door to his own room, seldom used, since it was
always so pleasant in this happy home to go through the main living-room,
which every one liked so much that, though it was not the dining-room, it
was generally used as such, and though it was not the parlour, it was its
frequent substitute. Opening the door, Crozier stepped aside to let
Burlingame pass. It was two years since Burlingame had been in this
room, and then he had entered it without invitation. His inquisitiveness
had led him to explore it with no good intent when he lived in the house.

Entering now, he gave it quick scrutiny. It was clear he was looking for
something in particular. He was, in fact, searching for signs of its
occupancy by another than Shiel Crozier--tokens of a woman's presence.
There was, however, no sign at all of that, though there were signs of
a woman's care and attention in a number of little things--homelike,
solicitous, perhaps affectionate care and attention. Certainly the
spotless pillows, the pretty curtains, the pincushion, and charmingly