The Clue of the Twisted Candle

He looked at his watch.

“Now I am afraid I must be off,” he crossed the room and put out his hand to John Lexman. “I wish you good luck,” he said, and took both Grace Lexman’s hands in his. “One of these days,” he said paternally, “I shall come down to Beston Tracey and your husband shall tell me another and a happier story.”

He paused at the door as he was going out and looking back caught the grateful eyes of Lexman.

“By the way, Mr. Lexman,” he said hesitatingly, “I don’t think I should ever write a story called ‘The Clue of the Twisted Candle,’ if I were you.”

John Lexman shook his head.

“It will never be written,” he said, “—by me.”