hich
were at his fingers' ends. It was at once comical and sad to see this
harmless old gentleman, with his naive, benevolent countenance, and his
thin hair flaming up in a semicircle, like the footlights at a theatre,
reveling in the intricacies of the unmentionable deed.

"You come up to my room to-night," he cried, with horrid glee, "and I'll
give you my theory of the murder. I'll make it as clear as day to you
that it was the detective himself who fired the three pistol-shots."

It was not so much the desire to have this point elucidated as to make a
closer study of Mr. Jaffrey that led me to accept his invitation. Mr.
Jaffrey's bedroom was in an L of the building, and was in no way
noticeable except for the numerous files of newspapers neatly arranged
against the blank spaces of the walls, and a huge pile of old magazines
which stood in one corner, reaching nearly up to the ceiling, and
threatening to topple over each instant, like the Leaning Tower at Pisa.
There were green paper shades at the windows, some faded chintz valances
about the bed, and two or three easy-chairs covered with chintz. On a
black-walnut shelf between the windows lay a choice collection of
meerschaum and brier-wood pipes.

Filling one of the chocolate-colored bowls for me and another for
himself, Mr. Jaffrey began prattling; but not about the murder, which
appeared to have flown out of his mind. In fact, I do not remember that
the topic was even touched upon, either then or afterwards.

"Cozy nest this," said Mr. Jaffrey, glancing complacently over the
apartment. "What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an
open wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out
of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and
bluebirds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last spring.
In summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees
under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round. I take it
very easy here, I can tell you, summer and winter. Not much society.
Tobias is not, perhaps, what one would term a great intellectual force,
but he means well. He's a realist--believes in coming down to what he
calls (the hardpan); but his heart is in the right place, and he's very
kind to me. The wisest thing I ever did in my life was to sell out my
grain business over at K----, thirteen years ago, and settle down at the
Corners. When a man has made a competency, what does