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TRENT'S LAST CASE.
I should have said you were an artist, if I hadn't known it.'
'Why? Does my hair want cutting?'
'Oh, no! It's only that you look at things and people as I've seen artists do, with an eye that moves steadily from detail to detail–rather looking them over than looking at them.'
The boy came up panting. 'Telegram for you, sir,' he said to Trent. 'Just come, sir.'
Trent tore open the envelope with an apology, and his eyes lighted up so visibly as he read the slip that Marlowe's tired face softened in a smile.
'It must be good news,' he murmured half to himself.
Trent turned on him a glance in which nothing could be read. 'Not exactly news,' he said. 'It only tells me that another little guess of mine was a good one.'
