must try our port. It is
not Alto Douro, Mr. Furneaux, but it has body and bowket."

Winter was better prepared this time. Moreover he was carving, and
aware of a master's criticism, and there are occult problems connected
with even such a simple joint as a shoulder of lamb. Furneaux, too,
was momentarily subdued. He seemed to be reflecting sadly that statues
of gold, silver and bronze may have feet of clay.

"I have often thought, gentlemen," said the butler, "that yours must
be a most interesting profession. You meet all sorts and conditions of
men and women."

"We consort with the noblest malefactors," agreed Furneaux.

"Dear me, sir, you do use the queerest words. Now, I should never
dream of describing a criminal as noble."

"Not in the generally accepted sense, perhaps. But you, I take it,
have not had the opportunity of attending a really remarkable trial,
when, say, some intellectual giant among murderers is fighting for his
life. Believe me, no drama of the stage can rival that tragedy.

"The chief actor, remote, solitary, fenced away from the world he is
hoping to reenter, sits there in state. Every eye is on him, yet he
faces judge, jury, counsel, witnesses and audience with a calm dignity
worthy of an emperor. He listens imperturbably to facts which may hang
him, to lies which may lend color to the facts, to well-meaning
guesses which are wide of the mark. Truthful and false evidence is
equally prone to err when guilt or innocence must be determined by
circumstances alone.

"But the prisoner _knows_. He is the one man able to discriminate
between truth and falsity, yet he must not reveal the cruel stab
of fact or the harmless buffet of fiction by so much as a flicker
of an eyelid. He surveys the honest blunderer and the perjured
ruffian--I mean the counsel for the defense and the prosecution
respectively--with impartial scrutiny. If he is a sublime villain,
he will call on Heaven to testify that he is innocent with a
solemnity not surpassed by the judge who sentences him to death....
Yes, please, a bit off the knuckle end."

The concluding words were addressed to Winter, and Tomlinson started,
for he was wrapped up in the scene Furneaux was depicting.

"That point of view had not occurred to me," he admitted.

"You'll appreciate it fully when you see Mr. Fenley's murderer in the
dock," said Furneaux.

"Ah, sir. That brings your illustration home, indeed. But shall we
ever know who killed him?"