twisted body. Despite the playful acidity of his words, there was a
distinct threat underlying them. It occurred to Gurdon as he stood there
that he would much rather have this man for a friend than a foe.

"Perhaps you had better take a seat," the cripple said. "There is plenty
of time, and I don't mind confessing to you that this little comedy
amuses me. Heaven knows, I have little enough amusement in my dreary
life; and, therefore, in a measure, you have earned my gratitude. But
there is another side to the picture. I have enemies who are utterly
unscrupulous. I have to be unscrupulous in my turn, so that when I have
the opportunity of laying one of them by the heels, my methods are apt to
be thorough. Did you come here alone to-night, or have you an
accomplice?"

"Assuredly, I came alone," Gurdon replied.

"Oh, indeed. You found your way into the garden. To argue out the thing
logically, we will take it for granted that you had no intention whatever
of paying a visit to my garden when you left home. If such had been your
intention, you would not be wearing evening dress, and thin, patent
leather shoes. Your visit to the garden was either a resolution taken on
the spur of the moment, or was determined upon after a certain discovery.
I am glad to hear that you came here entirely by yourself."

There was an unmistakable threat in these latter words; and as Gurdon
looked up he saw that the cripple was regarding him with an intense
malignity. The grey eyes were cold and merciless, the handsome face hard
and set, and yet it was not a countenance which one usually associates
with the madman or the criminal. Really, it was a very noble face--the
face of a philanthropist, a poet, a great statesman, who devotes his