. "I
always wonder what it must be like to commit one, don't you?"

"No," said Paul, quietly. "I confess that I do not generally devote much
thought to the matter. Murder is not a particularly pleasant subject for
contemplation."

"Oh, do you think so?" answered Chrysophrasia. "Of course not pleasant,
no, but so very interesting. I read such a delightfully thrilling
account this morning of a man who killed his own brother,--quite like
Cain."

Paul made no answer, and continued to eat his dinner in silence. Though
at that time I knew nothing of his story, I remember noticing how
Professor Cutter slowly turned his face towards Patoff, and the peculiar
expression of his gray eyes as I saw them through the gold-rimmed
spectacles. Then he looked at John Carvel, who grew very red in the
pause which followed. Mrs. Carvel looked down at her plate, and her
features showed that her sister's remark had given her some pain; for
she was quite incapable of concealing her slightest emotions, like many
extremely truthful and sensitive people. But Chrysophrasia had launched
herself, and was not to be silenced by an awkward pause. Not
understanding the situation in the least, I nevertheless tried to
relieve the unpleasantness by answering her.

"I think it is a great mistake that the newspapers should publish the
horrible details of every crime committed," I said. "It is bad for the
public morals, and worse for the public taste."

"Really, we must be allowed some emotion," answered Chrysophrasia. "It
is so very thrilling to read about such cases. Now I can quite well
imagine what it must be like to kill somebody, and then to hear every
one saying to me, 'Where is thy brother?' Poor Cain! He must have had
the most deliciously complicated feelings!"

She fixed her green eyes on Paul so intently as she spoke that I looked
at him, too, and was surprised to see that he was very pale. He said
nothing, however, but he looked up and returned her gaze. His cold blue
eyes glittered disagreeably. At that moment, John Carvel, who was redder
than ever, addressed me in loud tones. I thought his voice had an
artificial ring in it as he spoke.

"Well, Griggs," he cried, "without going into the question of Cain and
Abel, can you tell me anything about the figures?"

I said something. I gave some approximate account, and, speaking loudly,
I ran on readily with a long string of statistics, most of them, I
grieve to say, manufactured on the spur o