him?'

(I may stop to remark that this was no proof of my sense. An
observer of men who finds himself steadily repelled by some
apparently trifling thing in a stranger is right to give it great
weight. It may be the clue to the whole mystery. A hair or two
will show where a lion is hidden. A very little key will open a
very heavy door.)

I took my part in the conversation with him after a time, and we
got on remarkably well. In the drawing-room I asked the host how
long he had known Mr. Slinkton. He answered, not many months; he
had met him at the house of a celebrated painter then present, who
had known him well when he was travelling with his nieces in Italy
for their health. His plans in life being broken by the death of
one of them, he was reading with the intention of going back to
college as a matter of form, taking his degree, and going into
orders. I could not but argue with myself that here was the true
explanation of his interest in poor Meltham, and that I had been
almost brutal in my distrust on that simple head.



III.


On the very next day but one I was sitting behind my glass
partition, as before, when he came into the outer office, as
before. The moment I saw him again without hearing him, I hated
him worse than ever.