He put up his hand and stroked his beardless chin.
"Yes, that is how I used to feel at first."
"What do you mean?"
He leaned forward and looked me keenly in the face.
"Do you not know me?"
I paused before I answered. So far as my recollection went his face was strange to me. Still, my memory might err.
"Is it possible that we have met before? Can I have given you any, even the slightest, cause to do this thing?"
"You are right in your inference. I did it all. It was I who put the cards in your pocket."
"You—you devil!"
This time my indignation did get the better of me. I sprang forward to seize him by the throat, but, with a dexterous movement, he eluded me. Missing my aim, I fell on my knees on the floor. Rising to his feet he looked down at me, and smiled.
"Do you not know me now?"
"Know you? No!"
"I am Francis Farmer."
"Francis Farmer!"
"I am the guardian of the cards. Did not the constable tell you that where they were I was always close at hand?"
"But—Farmer's dead!"
"That is so. He's dead."
Scrambling to my feet I caught hold, for support, of the railing which was intended for light luggage. What did he mean? Was the fellow, after all, some
