thing that one could follow, they pour out a flood of well-meaning directions, and when you look bewildered they take you kindly by the arm and walk all the way there with you."
"Is that your experience in Florence, Pagett?" asked Sir Eustace, turning with a smile to his secretary.
For some reason the question seemed to disconcert Mr. Pagett. He stammered and flushed.
"Oh, quite so, yes—er quite so."
Then with a murmured excuse, he rose and left the table.
"I am beginning to suspect Guy Pagett of having committed some dark deed in Florence," remarked Sir Eustace, gazing after his secretary's retreating figure. "Whenever Florence or Italy is mentioned, he changes the subject, or bolts precipitately."
"Perhaps he murdered some one there," said Mrs. Blair hopefully. "He looks—I hope I'm not hurting your feelings, Sir Eustace—but he does look as though he might murder some one."
"Yes, pure Cinquecento! It amuses me sometimes—especially when one knows as well as I do how essentially law-abiding and respectable the poor fellow really is."
"He's been with you some time, hasn't he, Sir Eustace?" asked Colonel Race.
"Six years," said Sir Eustace, with a deep sigh.
"He must be quite invaluable to you," said Mrs. Blair.
"Oh, invaluable! Yes, quite invaluable." The poor man sounded even more depressed, as though the invaluableness of Mr. Pagett was a secret grief to him. Then he added more briskly: "But his face should really inspire you with confidence, my dear lady. No self-respecting murderer would ever consent to look like one. Crippen, now, I believe, was one of the pleasantest fellows imaginable."
