his voice as he explained that he never looked at people's hands now.
"Never now--never again." He shook his head as though to beat off some
memory.

I was much embarrassed by my indiscretion. I hastened to tide over
the awkward moment by saying that if _I_ could read hands I
wouldn't, for fear of the awful things I might see there.

"Awful things, yes," he whispered, nodding at the fire.

"Not," I said in self-defense, "that there's anything very awful, so
far as I know, to be read in MY hands."

He turned his gaze from the fire to me.

"You aren't a murderer, for example?"

"Oh, no," I replied, with a nervous laugh.

"_I_ am."

This was a more than awkward, it was a painful, moment for me;
and I am afraid I must have started or winced, for he instantly begged my
pardon.

"I don't know," he exclaimed, "why I said it. I'm usually a very
reticent man. But sometimes--" He pressed his brow. "What you must
think of me!"

I begged him to dismiss the matter from his mind.