Monsieur Judas: A Paradox. Fergus Hume

I hear the verdict was suicide."

      "Yes, and I don't agree with the verdict."

      Roger turned round quickly, and looked straight at his companion, who was staring absently at the fire.

      "Indeed," he said at length. "Why not?"

      "Eh! Oh, I don't know; I've got my reasons," replied Fanks, coolly, evidently not wishing to continue the subject. "By the way, how long are you going to stop here?"

      "Just for to-night; I'm off to-morrow."

      "So am I. London?"

      "No, I'm going to continue my walking tour."

      "Ah, sly dog," cried Fanks, gaily, "I understand. You are going to look up Miss Varlins again."

      Roger bit his nether lip hard, and replied, coldly, in a somewhat sober fashion, neither affirming nor denying the insinuation:

      "I won't find her down here at all events."

      "Oh! Then she's still at Ventnor?"

      "No! She and Miss Marson have gone home."

      "Really! And where is home?"

      "My dear Fanks, your cross-examination is most trying."

      "I beg your pardon," said Octavius, ceremoniously, "I was not aware I had asked an impertinent question."

      "Nor have you, my dear fellow," cried Axton, cordially. "Don't mind my bad temper, I can't help it. My nerves are all unstrung with this horrible business of the inquest. There's no reason why I should not tell you where Miss Varlins lives."

      "Oh, never mind," said Fanks, a trifle coldly; "I don't want to know."

      "Don't get offended at nothing, Octavius," replied Roger, in an injured tone; "I will tell you if it's only to make amends for my rudeness. Miss Varlins lives at Ironfields."

      The detective jumped to his feet with a sudden ejaculation, at which Axton also arose, looking pale and alarmed.

      "What's the matter, Fanks?" he asked, hurriedly.

      For answer, Octavius Fanks drew the pill-box from his pocket, and placing it silently on the table, pointed to the inscription on the lid:

      "Wosk & Co.

       Chemists, Ironfields."

       Chapter 3

      Purely Theoretical

      Roger Axton stood looking at the pill-box on the table, and Octavius Fanks stood looking at Roger Axton, the former lost in a fit of painful musing (evident from his pale face, his twitching lips, his startled expression), the latter keenly observant, according to his usual habits. At last Roger with a deep sigh drew his hand across his brow and resumed his seat, while Mr. Fanks, picking up the pill-box, gave it a cheerful rattle as he followed his example.

      "What a strange coincidence," he said, thoughtfully; "but I'm not astonished. This sort of thing occurs in real life as well as in novels. 'Truth is stranger than fiction.' I don't know who first made that remark, but he was a wise man, you may depend, and wonderfully observant of events before he crystallised his experience in those five words."

      "It certainly is curious," replied Roger, absently, as though he were thinking of something else. "Fancy finding the name of the town where She—"

      "With a large S, of course."

      "Where she lives, printed on a pill-box," finished Roger, and then, after a pause: "What do you think of it, Fanks?"

      "Think!" repeated Octavius, thoughtfully. "Oh, I think it is the clue to the whole mystery."

      "Why, what do you mean?" asked Roger, in a startled tone.

      "What I say," retorted Fanks, twirling the pill-box round and round. "It's not difficult of comprehension. Man, name unknown, comes down here, and dies shortly after his arrival. Inquest; verdict, suicide! Fiddle-de-dee! Murder! And this pill-box is the first link in the chain that will bind the criminal. By the way," said Octavius, suddenly struck with a new idea, "how long have you been at Jarlchester?"

      "A week."

      "Oh! Then you were here when the man died?"

      "I was."

      "Humph! Excuse my witness-box manner!"

      "Don't apologise," said Roger, quietly. "Cross-examine me as much as you like. It seems second nature with detectives to suspect every one."

      "Suspect!" repeated Octavius, in an injured tone. "Good heavens, Axton, what are you talking about? I'd as soon think of suspecting myself, you peppery young ass. But I'm anxious to find out all about this affair, and naturally ask the people who lived under the same roof as the dead man. You are one of the people, so I ask you."

      "Ask me what?"

      "Oh, several things."

      "Well, go on; but I warn you I know nothing," said Roger, gloomily.

      "I tell you what, young man," observed Mr. Fanks, sententiously, "you need shaking up a bit. This love affair has made you view all things in a most bilious fashion. An overdose of love, and poetry, and solitude incapacitates a human being for enjoying life, so if you are wise—which I beg leave to doubt—you will brace up your nerves by helping me to find out this mystery."

      "I'm afraid I'd make a sorry detective, Octavius."

      "That remains to be proved. See here, old boy. I was called down here about this case, and as the wiseacres of Jarlchester have settled it to their own satisfaction that there is—to their minds—no more need for my services, I am discharged—dismissed—turned out by Jarlchester & Co.; but as I don't often get such a clever case to look after, I'm going to find out the whole affair for my own pleasure."

      "It seems a disease with you, this insatiable curiosity to find out things."

      "Ay, that it is. We call it detective fever. Join me in this case, and you'll find yourself suffering from the disease in a wonderfully short space of time."

      "No, thank you; I prefer my freedom."

      "And your idleness! Well, go your own way, Roger. If you won't take the medicine I prescribe, you certainly won't be cured. Unrequited love will lie heavy on your heart, and your health and work will suffer in consequence. Both will be dull, and between doctors and critics you will have a high old time of it, dear boy."

      "What nonsense you do talk!" said Roger, fretfully.

      "Eh! do you think so? Perhaps I'm like Touchstone, and use my folly as a stalking-horse behind which to shoot my wit. I'm not sure if I'm quoting rightly, but the moral is apparent. However, all this is not to the point—to my point, I mean—and if you have not got detective fever I have, so I will use you as a medicine to allay the disease."

      "Fire away, old fellow," said Axton, turning his chair half round so as to place his tell-tale face in the shadow, thereby rendering it undecipherable to Fanks; "I'm all attention."

      Octavius at once produced his secretive little note-book and vicious little pencil, which latter assumed dramatic significance in the nervous fingers that held it.

      "I'm ready," said Fanks, letting his pencil-point jest on a clean white page. "Question first: Did you know this dead man?"

      "Good heavens, no. I don't even know his name nor his appearance."

      "You have never seen him?"

      "How could I have seen him? I am exploring the neighbourhood, and generally start on my travels in the morning early and return late. This man arrived at five, went to bed at nine, and as I didn't come back till ten o'clock I didn't see him on that night; next morning he was dead."

      "Did you not see the corpse?"

      "No," said Roger,