by what the highbrows call induction, trying to argue
up from the deeds to the doer. Now I tried a new lay, which was to
calculate down from the doer to the deeds. They call it deduction. I
opined that somewhere in this island was a gentleman whom we will call
Mr X, and that, pursuing the line of business he did, he must have
certain characteristics. I considered very carefully just what sort of
personage he must be. I had noticed that his device was apparently the
Double Bluff. That is to say, when he had two courses open to him, A
and B, he pretended he was going to take B, and so got us guessing that
he would try A. Then he took B after all. So I reckoned that his
camouflage must correspond to this little idiosyncrasy. Being a Boche
agent, he wouldn't pretend to be a hearty patriot, an honest old
blood-and-bones Tory. That would be only the Single Bluff. I considered
that he would be a pacifist, cunning enough just to keep inside the
law, but with the eyes of the police on him. He would write books which
would not be allowed to be exported. He would get himself disliked in
the popular papers, but all the mugwumps would admire his moral
courage. I drew a mighty fine picture to myself of just the man I
expected to find. Then I started out to look for him.'

Blenkiron's face took on the air of a disappointed child. 'It was no
good. I kept barking up the wrong tree and wore myself out playing the
sleuth on white-souled innocents.'

'But you've found him all right,' I cried, a sudden suspicion leaping
into my brain.

'He's found,' he said sadly, 'but the credit does not belong to John S.
Blenkiron. That child merely muddied the pond. The big fish was left
for a young lady to hook.'

'I know,' I cried excitedly. 'Her name is Miss Mary Lamington.'

He shook a disapproving head. 'You've guessed right, my son, but you've
forgotten your manners. This is a rough business and we won't bring in
the name of a gently reared and pure-minded young girl. If we speak to
her at all we call her by a pet name out of the _Pilgrim's Progress_
... Anyhow she hooked the fish, though he isn't landed. D'you see any
light?'

'Ivery,' I gasped.

'Yes. Ivery. Nothing much to look at, you say. A common, middle-aged,
pie-faced, golf-playing high-brow, that you wouldn't keep out of a
Sunday school. A touch of the drummer, too, to show he has no dealings
with your effete aristocracy. A languishing silver-tongue that adores
the sound of his ow