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accompli. That is why we have not even mentioned to the police the existence of this photograph which we found on the body."

"Mr. Reeves———"

A woman can use a surname as a bludgeon. That title of respect, "Mr. So-and-So," which expresses our relations to the outside world, has often, indeed, had an ominous ring for us. Deans used it when they were protesting at our neglect of chapels; proctors, when they urged the immodesty of going out to dinner without a cap and gown. But nobody can use it with the same annihilating effect as a woman scorned. "Mister"—you are a man, I a defenceless woman. "Mister"—you have the title of a gentleman, although you are behaving like a cad. "Mister"—you see, I treat you with all possible politeness, although you have not deserved any such respect from me. There is irony in the word "Mister"; it makes one long for a title.

"Mr. Reeves, I am sorry to say that you are not telling me the truth."

Reeves sat stunned. It was too bad, that he should have thrown away disguises only to be called a liar. It was too bad that Gordon should have been right when he said "Nothing deceives like the truth." He sat there humbled, waiting for more.

"Of course, I don't see at all why you and your friends see fit to treat me in this way. The only thing that seems quite clear to me is that it is unfair to expect me to be frank with you when you