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 to, such a hobby or branch of knowledge, his intellectual life was somewhat solitary. Among the few exceptions was Horne Fisher, who had a curious capacity for talking to almost anybody about almost anything.

"Studying botany, or is it archæology?" inquired Grayne. "I shall never come to the end of your interests, Fisher. I should say that what you don't know isn't worth knowing." "You are wrong," replied Fisher, with a very unusual abruptness and even bitterness. "It's what I do know that isn't worth knowing. All the seamy side of things, all the secret reasons and rotten motives and bribery and blackmail they call politics. I needn't be so proud of having been down all these sewers that I should brag about it to the little boys in the street." "What do you mean? What's the matter with you?" asked his friend. "I never knew you taken like this before." "I'm ashamed of myself," replied Fisher. "I've just been throwing cold water on the enthusiasms of a boy." "Even that explanation is hardly exhaustive," observed the criminal expert. "Damned newspaper nonsense the enthusiasms were, of course," continued Fisher, "but I ought to know that at that age illusions can be ideals. And they're better than the reality, anyhow. But there is one very ugly responsibility