-"

Rupert sprang up and struck his hands together.

"Then why are we hanging here? Let's get along. Basil, lend me your
revolver."

Basil was staring into the embers like a man in a trance; and it was
some time before he answered:

"I don't think you'll need it."

"Perhaps not," said Rupert, getting into his fur coat. "One never knows.
But going down a dark court to see criminals--"

"Do you think they are criminals?" asked his brother.

Rupert laughed stoutly. "Giving orders to a subordinate to strangle a
harmless stranger in a coal-cellar may strike you as a very blameless
experiment, but--"

"Do you think they wanted to strangle the Major?" asked Basil, in the
same distant and monotonous voice.

"My dear fellow, you've been asleep. Look at the letter."

"I am looking at the letter," said the mad judge calmly; though, as a
matter of fact, he was looking at the fire. "I don't think it's the sort
of letter one criminal would write to another."

"My dear boy, you are glorious," cried Rupert, turning round, with
laughter in his blue bright eyes. "Your methods amaze me. Why, there
is the letter. It is written, and it does give orders for a crime. You
might as well say that the Nelson Column was not at all the sort of
thing that was likely to be set up in Trafalgar Square."

Basil Grant shook all over with a sort of silent laughter, but did not
otherwise move.

"That's rather good," he said; "but, of course, logic like that's not
what is really wanted. It's a question of spiritual atmosphere. It's not
a criminal letter."

"It is. It's a matter of fact," cried the other in an agony of
reasonableness.

"Facts," murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange, far-off
animals, "how facts obscure the truth. I may be silly--in fact, I'm
off my head--but I never could believe in that man--what's his name,
in those capital stories?--Sherlock Holmes. Every detail points to
something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in
all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree.
It's only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up--only the
green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars."

"But what the deuce else can the letter be but criminal?"

"We have eternity to stretch our legs in," replied the mystic. "It can
be an infinity of things. I haven't seen any of them--I've only seen the
letter. I look at that, and say it's not criminal."

"Then what's the o