The Club of Queer Trades
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 bright blue 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
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