on. "I don't make my enquiries too particular. For instance, I shouldn't
bar a man because he had got into trouble."

"Have you any reason to suppose that Henley had done so?" Quarles asked.
"That might account for his mysterious death."

"I have no such suspicion," Watson answered; "indeed, he was not that
kind of man. It is my way--my clumsy way of explaining what I mean by
decent. Many a decent man has seen the inside of a prison. By being there
he pays his debt, and afterwards, in common justice, he should be free,
really free, free from his fellow-man's contempt."

"You have started my husband on his pet hobby," laughed Mrs. Watson. "He
always declares that our prisons hold some of the best men in the world."

"Some of the strongest and most potential," corrected her husband.

"I am inclined to agree with him," said Quarles.

"But I am taking up your time and not asking the one or two
questions I came especially to ask. You dress for the performance in
the tent, I suppose?"

"The men do. The ladies dress here and go down with cloaks over their
costumes."

Quarles undid a small brown paper parcel--I had wondered what he had
brought with him--and produced the pierrot's hat.

"That is Henley's, I suppose?"