Thereupon I descended to the drawing-room, which I found empty.  It was a true woman’s room, daintily furnished, with little knick-knacks here and there, a work-basket put neatly away for the Sabbath, and an open piano with one of Chopin’s works upon the music-rest.  Leading out of the drawing-room was a small conservatory, filled with plants.  It was a pretty little place and I could not refrain from exploring it.  I am passionately fond of flowers, but my life at that time was not one that permitted me much leisure to indulge in my liking.  As I stood now, however, in the charming place, among the rows of neatly-arranged pots, I experienced a sort of waking dream.  I seemed to see myself standing in this very conservatory, hard at work upon my flowers, a pipe in my mouth and my favourite old felt hat upon my head.  Crime and criminals were alike forgotten; I no longer lived in a dingy part of the Town, and what was better than all I had——­

“Do you know I feel almost inclined to offer you the proverbial penny,” said Miss Kitwater’s voice behind me, at the drawing-room door.  “Is it permissible to ask what you were thinking about?”

I am not of course prepared to swear it, but I honestly believe for the first time for many years, I blushed.

“I was thinking how very pleasant a country life must be,” I said, making the first excuse that came to me.  “I almost wish that I could lead one.”

“Then why don’t you?  Surely it would not be so very difficult?”

“I am rather afraid it would,” I answered.  “And yet I don’t know why it should be.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Fairfax would not care about it,” she continued, as we returned to the drawing-room together.

“Good gracious!” I remarked.  “There is no Mrs. Fairfax.  I am the most confirmed of old bachelors.  I wonder you could not see that.  Is not the word crustiness written plainly upon my forehead?”

“I am afraid I cannot see it,” she answered.  “I am not quite certain who it was, but I fancy it was my uncle who informed me that you were married.”

“It was very kind of him,” I said.  “But it certainly is not the case.  I fear my wife would have rather a lonely time of it if it were.  I am obliged to be away from home so much, you see, and for so long at a time.”

“Yours must be indeed a strange profession, Mr. Fairfax, if I may say so,” she continued.  “Some time ago I came across an account, in a magazine, of your life, and the many famous cases in which you had taken part.”

“Ah!  I remember the wretched thing,” I said.  “I am sorry that you should ever have seen it.”

“And why should you be sorry?”

“Because it is a silly thing, and I have always regretted allowing the man to publish it.  He certainly called upon me and asked me a lot of questions, after which he went away and wrote that article.  Ever since then I have felt like a conceited ass, who tried to make himself out more clever than he really was.”