alloner lit his cigar, "how did you get on with the detective trade?"

"I did not try," said Challoner curtly.

"Ah, well, I did," returned Somerset, "and made the most incomparable
mess of it; lost all my money and fairly covered myself with odium and
ridicule. There is more in that business, Challoner, than meets the eye;
there is more, in fact, in all businesses. You must believe in them, or
get up the belief that you believe. Hence," he added, "the recognised
inferiority of the plumber, for no one could believe in plumbing."

"_A propos_," asked Challoner, "do you still paint?"

"Not now," replied Paul; "but I think of taking up the violin."

Challoner's eye, which had been somewhat restless since the trade of the
detective had been named, now rested for a moment on the columns of the
morning paper, where it lay spread upon the counter.

"By Jove," he cried, "that's odd!"

"What is odd?" asked Paul.

"Oh, nothing," returned the other: "only I once met a person called
M'Guire."

"So did I!" cried Somerset. "Is there anything about him?"

Challoner read as follows: "_Mysterious death in Stepney._ An inquest
was held yesterday on the body of Patrick M'Guire, described as a
carpenter. Dr. Dovering stated that he had for some time treated the
deceased as a dispensary patient, for sleeplessness, loss of appetite,
and nervous depression. There was no cause of death to be found. He
would say the deceased had sunk. Deceased was not a temperate man, which
doubtless accelerated death. Deceased complained of dumb ague, but
witness had never been able to detect any positive disease. He did not
know that he had any family. He regarded him as a person of unsound
intellect, who believed himself a member and the victim of some secret
society. If he were to hazard an opinion, he would say deceased had died
of fear."

"And the doctor would be right," cried Somerset; "and my dear Challoner,
I am so relieved to hear of his demise, that I will----. Well, after
all," he added, "poor devil, he was well served."

The door at this moment opened, and Desborough appeared upon the
threshold. He was wrapped in a long waterproof, imperfectly supplied
with buttons; his boots were full of water, his hat greasy with service;
and yet he wore the air of one exceeding well content with life. He was
hailed by the two others with exclamations of surprise and welcome.

"And did you try the detective business?" inquired Paul.

"No," returne