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    anything; and I’m afraid the taking of the trenches has cost a stiff price.”

    His eyes challenged us. “But I—Hercule Poirot—tell you that it is not so! The true clues are within—here!” He tapped his forehead. “See you, I need not have left London. It would have been sufficient for me to sit quietly in my rooms there. All that matters is the little grey cells within. Secretly and silently they do their part, until suddenly I call for a map, and I lay my finger on a spot—so—and I say: the Prime Minister is there! And it is so! With method and logic one can accomplish anything! This frantic rushing to France was a mistake—it is playing a child’s game of hide-and-seek. But now, though it may be too late, I will set to work the right way, from within. Silence, my friends, I beg of you.”






    Some of the most ardent and serviceable of Socialist workers, I have said, are of the former type. For the most part they are philanthropic people, or women and men of the managing temperament shocked into a sort of Socialism by the more glaring and melodramatic cruelties of our universally cruel social system. They are the district visitors of Socialism. They do not realize that Socialism demands any change in themselves or in their way of living, they perceive in it simply a way of hope from the

    News that Simpson had been shot spread fast. Shouse was, of course, immediately accused of the murder. Those most familiar with the general state of affairs suspected that James Mulligan and William H. J. Stevenson, both of whom lived near by, were accessories. A search was made in the neighborhood, but not one of the three men could be found. The law-abiding citizens on both sides of the Ohio recognized in the death of Simpson the removal of a man who, either through a selfish motive or for the good of the public, contemplated revealing secrets the exposition of which would have led to the extermination of a band of men who had disturbed the community for many years. Pursuing parties were sent out and messengers and letters dispatched in every direction in an effort to capture the three fleeing men and bring them back for trial and punishment.

    "Lee Hartford," he replied.


    “Oh, yet we trust that somehow good


    "You must send Thorburn here to-night."


    But if he is clever and witty in his writing, he is much cleverer and wittier in his talk. I do not suppose I shall ever forget one Sunday I spent with him, for by midday he had reduced my mind to chaos and my body to limpness by his consuming energy. When he was not playing, he was talking, and he did both as though the day were the last he was going to spend on earth, so eager and convulsive was his speech, so vehement his playing.


    He did not wait for them to react.

    I had gone out one day to visit the emigrant station, which is situated on the outskirts of the city, and noticed, on my way thither, a number of policemen on the car. Then, apparently at a signal from a man in charge, they seemed to melt away. Half an hour later, while I was at the emigrant station, I was startled by loud cries outside the building. Every one rushed to the windows. The street was crowded with men, women, and children, all running helter-skelter in the direction of the city. Some of the hands in a nearby factory had gone on strike. I could not at first understand why every one seemed in such a state of terror. Very soon I learned, however, that they were running from

    “The yung spalpeen!” ses I, and thin she hid her face in her hand.

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