k much more than fifty now."

"All the same I am nearly fourscore," said Mr. Fortescue, smiling as if
the compliment pleased him.

"Fourscore, and so hale and strong! I have known men half your age not
half so vigorous and alert. Why, you may live to be a hundred."

"I think I shall, probably longer. Of course barring accidents, and if I
continue to avoid a peril which has been hanging over me for half a
century or so, and from which I have several times escaped only by the
skin of my teeth."

"And what is the peril, Mr. Fortescue?"

"Assassination."

"Assassination!"

"Yes, assassination. I told you a short time ago that I was once hunted by
a pack of hounds. I am hunted now--have been hunted for two
generations--by a family of murderers."

The thought occurred to me--and not for the first time--that Mr. Fortescue
was either mad or a Munchausen, and I looked at him curiously; but neither
in that calm, powerful, self-possessed face, nor in the steady gaze of
those keen dark eyes, could I detect the least sign of incipient insanity
or a boastful spirit.

"You are quite mistaken," he said, with one of his enigmatic smiles. "I am
not mad; and I have lived too long either to cherish illusions or conjure
up imaginary dangers."

"I--I beg your pardon, Mr. Fortescue--I had no intention," I stammered,
quite taken aback by the accuracy with which he had read, or guessed, my
thoughts--"I had no intention to cast a doubt on what you said. But who
are these people that seek your life? and why don't you inform the
police?"

"The police! How could the police help me?" exclaimed Mr. Fortescue, with
a gesture of disdain, "Besides, life would not be worth having at the
price of being always under police protection, like an evicting Irish
landlord. But let us change the subject; we have talked quite enough about
myself. I want to talk about you."

A very few minutes sufficed to put Mr. Fortescue in possession of all the
information he desired. He already knew something about me, and as I had
nothing to conceal, I answered all his questions without reserve.

"Don't you think you are rather wasting your life?" he asked, after I had
answered the last of them.

"I am enjoying it."

"Very likely. People generally do enjoy life when they are young. Hunting
is all very well as an amusement, but to have no other object in life
seems--what shall we say?--just a little frivolous, don't you think?"

"Well, perhaps it does; but