ceman, suspecting burglars, come to inquire
why my light was burning, or it might be a "mistake."

So I went to the door and opened it without removing the chain.

"Who is there?" I asked.

Then a voice inquired, "Is this Mr. Samuel Chillip's?" It was a somewhat
hoarse, gruff voice, but its tone was subdued and quiet. It threatened
nothing unpleasant.

"Yes, I am Mr. Chillip," I said.

"Can I speak with you a moment?"

"About what? Who are you?"

"I am a stranger, and I cannot well explain my business here, but it is
important and urgent."

This was said in so tranquil and respectful a manner as to allay any
apprehension I might have felt, while exciting my curiosity. Still I
hesitated. The stranger might be a beggar. But he anticipated my
thought.

"I have not come to beg," he said, "or to trouble you in any way. I have
an important communication to make to you, likely to be useful to you in
your occupation, and it must be made at once or it will be too late."

Here was a mystery equal to many that I myself had invented. What could
it mean? I was eager to know, and alas! let the stranger in.

[Illustration: "WHO IS THERE?"]

He asked me to allow him to accompany me to my study, and I did so.
There was but a dim light in the passage, and it was not till he had
entered my room, and the rays of my lamp had fallen upon him, that I
discovered what manner of man it was that I had rashly admitted.

He was a tall, big man, with a hard, square face, and deep-set,
glittering eyes, and his chin fringed with a round, shaggy beard, while
he was attired in a rough pilot coat, and on his head he wore a
broad-brimmed felt hat. He looked like a seafaring man, and was not a
prepossessing person.

[Illustration: "HE WAS A TALL, BIG MAN."]

I asked him to take a seat, and seated myself in my round-backed writing
chair beside my desk.

He had taken off his hat, and held it on his knee with his left hand,
while the other he buried in his capacious side pocket. I thought he was
going to produce something, but he did not.

He merely opened a conversation, and I may say that the tone of his
voice throughout was always as quiet, as calm, as subdued, as when he
addressed me at the door.

"You are Mr. Samuel Chillip?" he asked, or remarked, again.

I bowed in reply.

"The author of 'The Poisoned Waterbottle' and other stories?"

"Yes."

"Tales of crime?"

"You may call them so."

"What do you know of crime?"

Th