“The wrong needle!  I should not say that carelessness was a habit with you.”  Stafford’s voice was civil and sympathetic.

“Confidence breeds carelessness,” was Mr. Mappin’s enigmatical retort.

“You were over-confident then?”

“Quite clearly so.  I thought that Glencader was beyond reproach.”

There was a slight pause, and then Stafford, flicking away some cigarette ashes, continued the catechism.  “What particular form of reproach do you apply to Glencader?”

“Thieving.”

“That sounds reprehensible—­and rude.”

“If you were not beyond reproach, it would be rude, Mr. Stafford.”

Stafford chafed at the rather superior air of the expert, whose habit of bedside authority was apt to creep into his social conversation; but, while he longed to give him a shrewd thrust, he forbore.  It was hard to tell how much he might have to do to prevent the man from making mischief.  The compliment had been smug, and smugness irritated Stafford.

“Well, thanks for your testimonial,” he said, presently, and then he determined to cut short the tardy revelation, and prick the bubble of mystery which the great man was so slowly blowing.

“I take it that you think some one at Glencader stole your needle, and so saved your collie’s life,” he said.

“That is what I mean,” responded Mr. Mappin, a little discomposed that his elaborate synthesis should be so sharply brought to an end.

There was almost a grisly raillery in Stafford’s reply.  “Now, the collie—­were you sufficiently a fatalist to let him live, or did you prepare another needle, or do it in the humdrum way?”

“I let the collie live.”

“Hoping to find the needle again?” asked Stafford, with a smile.

“Perhaps to hear of it again.”

“Hello, that is rather startling!  And you have done so?

“I think so.  Yes, I may say that.”

“Now how do you suppose you lost that needle?”

“It was taken from my pocket-case, and another substituted.

“Returning good for evil.  Could you not see the difference in the needles?”

“There is not, necessarily, difference in needles.  The substitute was the same size and shape, and I was not suspicious.”

“And what form does your suspicion take now?”

The great man became rather portentously solemn—­he himself would have said “becomingly grave.”  “My conviction is that Mr. Fellowes took my needle.”

Stafford fixed the other with his gaze.  “And killed himself with it?”

Mr. Mappin frowned.  “Of that I cannot be sure, of course.”

“Could you not tell by examining the body?”

“Not absolutely from a superficial examination.”

“You did not think a scientific examination necessary?”

“Yes, perhaps; but the official inquest is over, the expert analysis or examination is finished by the authorities, and the superficial proofs, while convincing enough to me, are not complete and final; and so, there you are.”