He jumped to his feet with a cry, and stood glaring down at me with a
gleam in his eyes which was positively murderous.

"You villain!" he hissed in low tones of concentrated fury, "so that's
your game, is it? I'll give you something that you'll want advice
about," and he whipped out a six-chambered revolver.

I felt hurt. I also felt that if the interview were prolonged I might
feel even more hurt. So I left him without a word, and drifted over to
the other end of the car, where I took up a position between a stout lady
and the door.

I was still musing upon the incident, when, looking up, I observed my
elderly friend making towards me. I rose and laid my hand upon the door-
knob. He should not find me unprepared. He smiled, reassuringly,
however, and held out his hand.

"I've been thinking," he said, "that maybe I was a little rude just now.
I should like, if you will let me, to explain. I think, when you have
heard my story, you will understand, and forgive me."

There was that about him which made me trust him. We found a quiet
corner in the smoking-car. I had a "whiskey sour," and he prescribed for
himself a strange thing of his own invention. Then we lighted our
cigars, and he talked.

"Thirty years ago," said he, "I was a young man with a healthy belief in
myself, and a desire to do good to others. I did not imagine myself a
genius. I did not even consider myself exceptionally brilliant or
talented. But it did seem to me, and the more I noted the doings of my