rly removed from the old
atmosphere of crime and its detection as the world in general considered
me to be. Mr. Gryce still visited me; not on business, of course, but as
a friend, for whom I had some regard; and naturally our conversation was
not always confined to the weather or even to city politics, provocative
as the latter subject is of wholesome controversy.

Not that he ever betrayed any of the secrets of his office--oh no; that
would have been too much to expect--but he did sometimes mention the
outward aspects of some celebrated case, and though I never ventured
upon advice--I know too much for that, I hope--I found my wits more or
less exercised by a conversation in which he gained much without
acknowledging it, and I gave much without appearing conscious of the
fact.

I was therefore finding life pleasant and full of interest, when
suddenly (I had no right to expect it, and I do not blame myself for not
expecting it or for holding my head so high at the prognostications of
my friends) an opportunity came for a direct exercise of my detective
powers in a line seemingly so laid out for me by Providence that I felt
I would be slighting the Powers above if I refused to enter upon it,
though now I see that the line was laid out for me by Mr. Gryce, and
that I was obeying anything but the call of duty in following it.

But this is not explicit. One night Mr. Gryce came to my house looking
older and more feeble than usual. He was engaged in a perplexing case,
he said, and missed his early vigor and persistency. Would I like to
hear about it? It was not in the line of his usual work, yet it had
points--and well!--it would do him good to talk about it to a
non-professional who was capable of sympathizing with its baffling and
worrisome features and yet would never have to be told to hold her
peace.

I ought to have been on my guard. I ought to have known the old fox well
enough to feel certain that when he went so manifestly out of his way to
take me into his confidence he did it for a purpose. But Jove nods now
and then--or so I have been assured on unimpeachable authority,--and if
Jove has ever been caught napping, surely Amelia Butterworth may be
pardoned a like inconsistency.

"It is not a city crime," Mr. Gryce went on to explain, and here he was
base enough to sigh. "At my time of life this is an important
consideration. It is no longer a simple matter for me to pack up a
valise and go off to some distant