some desultory conversation on various subjects, said suddenly, 'By
the way, you know a good many of these writing fellows, Harold--have
you ever come across one called Mark Ashburn?'

'I've met him once,' said Caffyn, and his brows contracted. 'Wrote
this new book, "Illusion," didn't he?'

'Yes, he did--confound him!' said the other warmly, and then launched
into the history of his wrongs. 'Perhaps I oughtn't to say it at my
age,' he concluded, 'but I hate that fellow!'

'Do you though?' said Caffyn with a laugh; 'it's a singular
coincidence, but so do I.'

'There's something wrong about him, too,' continued the old man; 'he's
got a secret.'

('So have most of us!' thought his nephew.) 'But what makes you think
so?' he asked aloud, and waited for the answer with some interest.

'I saw it in the fellow's face; no young man with a clear record ever
has such a look as he had when I came in. He was green with fear, sir;
perfectly green!'

'Is that all?' and Caffyn was slightly disappointed. 'You know, I
don't think much of that. He might have taken you for a dun, or an
indignant parent, or something of that sort; he may be one of those
nervous fellows who start at anything, and you came there on purpose
to give him a rowing, didn't you?'

'Don't talk to me,' said the old man impatiently; 'there's not much
nervousness about _him_--he's as cool and impudent a rascal as ever I
saw when he's nothing to fear. It was guilt, sir, guilt. You remember
that picture of the Railway Station, and the look on the forger's face
when the detectives lay hold of him at the carriage door? I saw that
very look on young Ashburn's face before I'd spoken a dozen words.'

'What were the words?' said Caffyn. 'Proceed, good uncle, as we say in
our profession; you interest me much!'

'I'm sure I forget what I said--I was out of temper, I remember that.
I think I began by asking him for the real name of the author of the
book.'

Again Caffyn was disappointed. 'Of course he was in a funk then; he
knew he had put you into it. So you say at least; I've not read the
book myself.'

'It wasn't that at all, I tell you,' persisted the old man
obstinately; 'you weren't there, and I was. D'ye think I don't know
better than you? He's not the man to care for that. When he found what
I'd really come about he was cool enough. No, no, he's robbed, or
forged, or something, at some time or other, take my word for it--and
I only hope I shall live to see