to our having free will."

"Everything? What, for instance?"

This rather cornered me. I dodged out, as lightly as I could, by
saying:

"I suppose YOU would say it's written in my hand that I should be a
believer in free will."

"Ah, I've no doubt it is."

I held out my palms. But, to my great disappointment, he looked
quickly away from them. He had ceased to smile. There was agitation
in his voice as he explained that he never looked at people's hands
now. "Never now--never again." He shook his head as though to beat
off some memory.

I was much embarrassed by my indiscretion. I hastened to tide over the
awkward moment by saying that if _I_ could read hands I wouldn't, for
fear of the awful things I might see there.

"Awful things, yes," he whispered, nodding at the fire.

"Not," I said in self-defense, "that there's anything very awful, so
far as I know, to be read in MY hands."

He turned his gaze from the fire to me.

"You aren't a murderer, for example?"

"Oh, no," I replied, with a nervous laugh.

"_I_ am."

This was a more than awkward, it was a painful, moment for me; and I am
afraid I must have started or winced, for he instantly begged my pardon.

"I don't know," he exclaimed, "why I said it. I'm usually a very
reticent man. But sometimes--" He pressed his brow. "What you must
think of me!"

I begged him to dismiss the matter from his mind.

"It's very good of you to say that; but--I've placed myself as well as
you in a false position. I ask you to believe that I'm not the sort of
man who is 'wanted' or ever was 'wanted' by the police. I should be
bowed out of any police-station at which I gave myself up. I'm not a
murderer in any bald sense of the word. No."

My face must have perceptibly brightened, for, "Ah," he said, "don't
imagine I'm not a murderer at all. Morally, I am." He looked at the
clock. I pointed out that the night was young. He assured me that his
story was not a long one. I assured him that I hoped it was. He said
I was very kind. I denied this. He warned me that what he had to tell
might rather tend to stiffen my unwilling faith in palmistry, and to
shake my opposite and cherished faith in free will. I said, "Never
mind." He stretched his hands pensively toward the fire. I settled
myself back in my chair.

"My hands," he said, staring at the backs of them, "are the hands of a
very weak man. I dare say you know enough of palmistry to see that