“I’m afraid I’m a connoisseur in murderers, as you are in poets,” he answered, “and I assure you they are of all colors in hair as well as temperament.  I suppose it’s inhumane, but mine is a monstrously interesting trade, even in a little place like this.  As for that girl, of course I’ve known her all her life, and—­but—­ but that is just the question.  Have I known her all her life?  Have I known her at all?  Was she even there to be known?  You admire her for telling the truth; and so she did, by God, when she said that some people wake up late, who have never lived before.  Do we know what they might do—­we, who have only seen them asleep?”

“Great heavens!” cried Paynter.  “You don’t dare suggest that she—­”

“No, I don’t,” said the lawyer, with composure, “but there are other reasons. . . .  I don’t suggest anything fully, till we’ve had our interview with this poet of yours.  I think I know where to find him.”

They found him, in fact, before they expected him, sitting on the bench outside the Vane Arms, drinking a mug of cider and waiting for the return of his American friend; so it was not difficult to open conversation with him.  Nor did he in any way avoid the subject of the tragedy; and the lawyer, seating himself also on the long bench that fronted the little market place, was soon putting the last developments as lucidly as he had put them to Barbara.

“Well,” said Treherne at last, leaning back and frowning at the signboard, with the colored birds and dolphins, just about his head; “suppose somebody did kill the Squire.  He’d killed a good many people with his hygiene and his enlightened landlordism.”

Paynter was considerably uneasy at this alarming opening; but the poet went on quite coolly, with his hands in his pockets and his feet thrust out into the street.

“When a man has the power of a Sultan in Turkey, and uses it with the ideas of a spinster in Tooting, I often wonder that nobody puts a knife in him.  I wish there were more sympathy for murderers, somehow.  I’m very sorry the poor old fellow’s gone myself; but you gentlemen always seem to forget there are any other people in the world.  He’s all right; he was a good fellow, and his soul, I fancy, has gone to the happiest paradise of all.”

The anxious American could read nothing of the effect of this in the dark Napoleonic face of the lawyer, who merely said:  “What do you mean?”

“The fool’s paradise,” said Treherne, and drained his pot of cider.

The lawyer rose.  He did not look at Treherne, or speak to him; but looked and spoke straight across him to the American, who found the utterance not a little unexpected.

“Mr. Paynter,” said Ashe, “you thought it rather morbid of me to collect murderers; but it’s fortunate for your own view of the case that I do.  It may surprise you to know that Mr. Treherne has now, in my eyes, entirely cleared himself of suspicion.  I have been intimate with several assassins, as I remarked; but there’s one thing none of them ever did.  I never knew a murderer to talk about the murder, and then at once deny it and defend it.  No, if a man is concealing his crime, why should he go out of his way to apologize for it?”