own manager—a startling dénouement. The accused, on the strength of this expert’s evidence, had been committed to stand his trial at Winton Quarter Sessions, and it was the issue of that event which was interesting Sir Calvin. He had had some dealings with the Bank in question, and had even been brought into some personal contact with the delinquent official. 

 “It seems,” he ended, “that there can be no doubt about the verdict. That Ridgway is a clever dog.” 

 “The detective?” queried Le Sage; and the General nodded. 

 “The sort I should be sorry, if a thief, to have laid on my trail.” 

 “But supposing you left none?” questioned the Baron, with a smile. 

 “Ah!” said Sir Calvin, having nothing better to reply. 

 “I have often thought,” said Le Sage, “that if crime realised its own opportunities, there would be no use for detectives at all.” 

 “Eh? Why not?” asked his host. 

 “Because there would be nothing to find out,” answered the Baron. 

 “How d’ye mean? Nothing to find out?” 

 “Nothing whatever. My idea, now, of a successful crime is not a crime which baffles its investigators, but a crime which does not appear as a crime at all.” 

 “Instance, M. le Baron,” I ventured to put in. 

 “Why,” said Le Sage good-humouredly, “a dozen may well present themselves to a man of average inventive intelligence. Direct murder, for example—how crude! when a hundred means offer themselves for procuring plausible ends to life. Tetanus germs and an iron tack; ptomaine, that toxicologic mystery, so easy to introduce; the edge of a cliff and a windy day; a frayed picture cord; a loosened nut or two; a scrap of soap left on the boards by an opened window—given adroitness, timeliness, a little nerve, would not any of these do?” 

 Audrey drew back in her chair, with a flushed little laugh. 

 “What a diabolical list!” she said, and made a face as if she had taken medicine. 

 “Yes,” said I. “But after all, Baron, this is no more than 

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