rubbing of his head, and turned the talk to the
object of Ovid's visit.

"So you have taken my advice," he said. "You're going to Canada, and you
want to get at what I can tell you before you start. Here's my journal.
It will jog my memory, and help us both."

His writing materials were placed on a movable table, screwed to his
chair. Near them lay a shabby-looking book, guarded by a lock. Ten
minutes after he had opened his journal, and had looked here and there
through the pages, his hard intellect had grasped all that it required.
Steadily and copiously his mind emptied its information into Ovid's
mind; without a single digression from beginning to end, and with the
most mercilessly direct reference to the traveller's practical wants.
Not a word escaped him, relating to national character or to the
beauties of Nature. Mrs. Gallilee had criticized the Falls of Niagara
as a reservoir of wasted power. Doctor Benjulia's scientific superiority
over the woman asserted itself with magnificent ease. Niagara being
nothing but useless water, he never mentioned Niagara at all.

"Have I served your purpose as a guide?" he asked. "Never mind thanking
me. Yes or no will do. Very good. I have got a line of writing to give
you next." He mended his quill pen, and made an observation. "Have you
ever noticed that women have one pleasure which lasts to the end of
their lives?" he said. "Young and old, they have the same inexhaustible
enjoyment of society; and, young and old, they are all alike incapable
of understanding a man, when he says he doesn't care to go to a party.
Even your clever mother thinks you want to go to parties in Canada." He
tried his pen, and found it would do--and began his letter.

Seeing his hands at work, Ovid was again reminded of Carmina's
discovery. His eyes wandered a little aside, towards the corner formed
by the pillar of the chimney-piece and the wall of the room. The
big bamboo-stick rested there. A handle was attached to it, made of
light-coloured horn, and on that handle there were some stains. Ovid
looked at them with a surgeon's practised eye. They were dry stains of
blood. (Had he washed his hands on the last occasion when he used his
stick? And had he forgotten that the handle wanted washing too?)

Benjulia finished his letter, and wrote the address. He took up the
envelope, to give it to Ovid--and stopped, as if some doubt tempted him
to change his mind. The hesitation was only momentary. He p