“You come up to my room to-night,” he cried, with horrid glee, “and I’ll give you my theory of the murder.  I’ll make it as clear as day to you that it was the detective himself who fired the three pistol-shots.”

It was not so much the desire to have this point elucidated as to make a closer study of Mr. Jaffrey that led me to accept his invitation.  Mr. Jaffrey’s bedroom was in an L of the building, and was in no way noticeable except for the numerous files of newspapers neatly arranged against the blank spaces of the walls, and a huge pile of old magazines which stood in one corner, reaching nearly up to the ceiling, and threatening to topple over each instant, like the Leaning Tower at Pisa.  There were green paper shades at the windows, some faded chintz valances about the bed, and two or three easy-chairs covered with chintz.  On a black-walnut shelf between the windows lay a choice collection of meerschaum and brier-wood pipes.

Filling one of the chocolate-colored bowls for me and another for himself, Mr. Jaffrey began prattling; but not about the murder, which appeared to have flown out of his mind.  In fact, I do not remember that the topic was even touched upon, either then or afterwards.

“Cozy nest this,” said Mr. Jaffrey, glancing complacently over the apartment.  “What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open wood-fire?  Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood?  Those are the ghosts of the robins and bluebirds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last spring.  In summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window:  so I have singing birds all the year round.  I take it very easy here, I can tell you, summer and winter.  Not much society.  Tobias is not, perhaps, what one would term a great intellectual force, but he means well.  He’s a realist—­believes in coming down to what he calls (the hardpan); but his heart is in the right place, and he’s very kind to me.  The wisest thing I ever did in my life was to sell out my grain business over at K——­, thirteen years ago, and settle down at the Corners.  When a man has made a competency, what does he want more?  Besides, at that time an event occurred which destroyed any ambition I may have had.  Mehetabel died.”

“The lady you were engaged to?”

“No, not precisely engaged.  I think it was quite understood between us, though nothing had been said on the subject.  Typhoid,” added Mr. Jaffrey, in a low voice.

For several minutes he smoked in silence, a vague, troubled look playing over his countenance.  Presently this passed away, and he fixed his gray eyes speculatively upon my face.

“If I had married Mehetabel,” said Mr. Jaffrey, slowly, and then he hesitated.  I blew a ring of smoke into the air, and, resting my pipe on my knee, dropped into an attitude of attention.  “If I had married Mehetabel, you know, we should have had—­ahem!—­a family.”