looking into the window of an adjacent pawnshop. I was delighted
to see that he was evidently following my suggestions, and in my
joy I ventured to tip him a wink; it was abstractedly returned.

Two days later I received a note appointing a meeting at his
lodgings that night. That meeting, alas! was the one memorable
occurrence of my life, and the last meeting I ever had with Hemlock
Jones! I will try to set it down calmly, though my pulses still
throb with the recollection of it.

I found him standing before the fire, with that look upon his face
which I had seen only once or twice in our acquaintance--a look
which I may call an absolute concatenation of inductive and
deductive ratiocination--from which all that was human, tender, or
sympathetic was absolutely discharged. He was simply an icy
algebraic symbol! Indeed, his whole being was concentrated to that
extent that his clothes fitted loosely, and his head was absolutely
so much reduced in size by his mental compression that his hat
tipped back from his forehead and literally hung on his massive
ears.

After I had entered he locked the doors, fastened the windows, and
even placed a chair before the chimney. As I watched these
significant precautions with absorbing interest, he suddenly drew a
revolver and, presenting it to my temple, said in low, icy tones:

"Hand over that cigar case!"

Even in my bewilderment my reply was truthful, spontaneous, and
involuntary. "I haven't got it," I said.