Presently he laid down his flute again and spoke:—­

“I scarcely expected you.”

I grunted something in answer.

“But I might have known something was up, if I’d only paid attention to my flute.  It and I are not in harmony to-night.  It doesn’t like the secrets I’ve been blowing into it; it has heard a lot of queer things in its time, but it’s an innocent-minded flute for all that, and I’m afraid that what I’ve told it to-night is a point beyond what it’s prepared to go.”

“I take it, it knows a damned deal too much,” growled I.

He looked at me sharply for an instant, rose, whistled a bar or two of “Like Hermit Poor,” reached down a couple of clay pipes from the shelf, filled one for himself, and gravely handed the other with the tobacco to me.

“Beyond what it is prepared to go,” he echoed quietly, sinking back in his chair and puffing at the pipe.  “It’s a nice point that we have been discussing together, my flute and I, and I won’t say but that I’ve got the worst of it.  By the way, what do you mean to do now that you have a fresh start?”

Now I had not tasted tobacco for over four months, and its effect upon my wits was surprising.  It seemed to oil my thoughts till they worked without a hitch, and I saw my plan of action marked out quite plainly before me.

“Do you want to know the first step of all?” I asked.

“To be sure; the first step at any rate determines the direction.”

“Well then,” said I, very steadily, and staring into his face, “the first step of all is that I am going to kill you.”

“H’m,” said he after a bit, and I declare that not so much as an eyelash of the man shook, “I thought as much.  I guessed that when you came into the room.  And what next?”

“Time enough then to think of ‘what next,’” I answered; for though I was set upon blowing his brains out, I longed for him to blaze out into a passion and warm up my blood for the job.

“Pardon me,” he said, as coolly as might be, “that would be the very worst time to think of it.  For, just consider:  in the first place you will already be committed to your way of life, and secondly, if I know anything about you, you would be far too much flurried for any thought worth the name.”

There was a twinkle of frosty humour in his eye as he said this, and in the silence which followed I could hear him chuckling to himself, and tasting the words over again as though they were good wine.  I sat fingering my pistol and waiting for him to speak again.  When he did so, it was with another dry chuckle and a long puff of tobacco smoke.

“As you say, I know a deal too much.  Shall I tell you how much?”

“Yes, you may if you’ll be quick about it.”