“That is very kind of you,” said my new acquaintance, with an inquisitive glance at me through his spectacles.  “I think I should like to sit down.  It’s a dull affair, mooning about the streets, and there isn’t time to go back to my chambers—­in Lincoln’s Inn.”

“I wonder,” said I, as I ushered him into the room lately vacated by Miss Oman, “if you happen to be Mr. Jellicoe?”

He turned his spectacles full on me with a keen, suspicious glance.  “What makes you think I am Mr. Jellicoe?” he asked.

“Oh, only that you live in Lincoln’s Inn.”

“Ha!  I see.  I live in Lincoln’s Inn; Mr. Jellicoe lives in Lincoln’s Inn; therefore I am Mr. Jellicoe.  Ha! ha!  Bad logic, but a correct conclusion.  Yes, I am Mr. Jellicoe.  What do you know about me?”

“Mighty little, excepting that you were the late John Bellingham’s man of business.”

“The ‘late John Bellingham,’ hey!  How do you know he is the late John Bellingham?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t; only I rather understood that that was your own belief.”

“You understood!  Now, from whom did you ‘understand’ that?  From Godfrey Bellingham?  H’m!  And how did he know what I believe?  I never told him.  It is a very unsafe thing, my dear sir, to expound another man’s beliefs.”

“Then you think that John Bellingham is alive?”

“Do I?  Who said so?  I did not, you know.”

“But he must be either dead or alive.”

“There,” said Mr. Jellicoe, “I am entirely with you.  You have stated an undeniable truth.”

“It is not a very illuminating one, however,” I replied, laughing.

“Undeniable truths often are not,” he retorted.  “They are apt to be extremely general.  In fact, I would affirm that the certainty of the truth of a given proposition is directly proportional to its generality.”

“I suppose that is so,” said I.

“Undoubtedly.  Take an instance from your own profession.  Given a million normal human beings under twenty, and you can say with certainty that a majority of them will die before reaching a certain age, that they will die in certain circumstances and of certain diseases.  Then take a single unit from that million, and what can you predict concerning him?  Nothing.  He may die to-morrow; he may live to a couple of hundred.  He may die of a cold in the head or a cut finger, or from falling off the cross of St. Paul’s.  In a particular case you can predict nothing.”

“That is perfectly true,” said I. And then, realising that I had been led away from the topic of John Bellingham, I ventured to return to it.

“That was a very mysterious affair—­the disappearance of John Bellingham, I mean.”

“Why mysterious?” asked Mr. Jellicoe.  “Men disappear from time to time, and when they reappear, the explanations that they give (when they give any) seem to be more or less adequate.”

“But the circumstances were surely rather mysterious.”