dies; the new generation comes along, holds up its hands, says what a frightful collection, throws it all out, and begins the same process over again under new rules.”

Having delivered himself of these sentiments, Mr. Jarrad indulged in a smile that was a little quizzical. His face, though shrewd, had no touch of cynicism, and this in spite of the fact that he had spent thirty years in estimating other people’s property. This interminable procession produced in his mind rather a curious effect, and he had acquired the habit of estimating his fellow-men by the things the latter owned and apparently treasured. Experience enabled him to form an excellent appraisal of the individual by merely walking through his house. He could visualize the owner. And if sometimes the job bored Mr. Jarrad, he never disclosed it.

“I said just now,” he went on with a wave of the hand, “that I rather liked this room. These things are good and not too numerous. They practically all fit. Of course they belong to Mr. Thursby, except the portrait, but, if they could, I’ve an idea they’d sooner still be owned by Mrs. Millicent. Mr. Thursby made his money very quickly during the war, and Mrs. Thursby isn’t the kind to collect such as this.” He touched a bit of lacquer with what almost amounted to a caress. “Ever hear the story? It’s short, but not pretty. It rather got hold of me, because there’s more in it than meets the eye.”

Dawkins shook his head. “I’ve never been in this part before.”

“Well, Mr. Millicent, who lived here for years with his wife and daughter, died very suddenly in this very room. He was a strange, remote sort of gentleman, so I’m told, and a great traveler. About middle age, he was. Had a habit of sitting up late, reading and writing, enjoyed perfect health, enough money to live on so far as people knew, and apparently without an enemy in the world. At ten o’clock one evening he was found lying across that desk with a wound in his throat big enough to put your hand into.”

“Why?” said Dawkins, startled.

Mr. Jarrad shrugged his shoulders. “That’s what the coroner and the local police and the London detective tried to find out, and failed. No proof against any one; no strange characters about, no clues, nothing found afterward, nothing whatever to go on; but it happened in this sleepy old place where there’s nothing but roses and scenery. It’s never been cleared up to this day, and probably never will be.”

Dawkins glanced about 

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