"And he got well," cried Stagers, much pleased with my rather
melodramatic tale.

"Yes," I said, "he got well, and lived to take purses, all dressed in
white. People had known him well, and when he robbed his great-aunt, who
was not in the secret, she swore she had seen his ghost."

Stagers said that was a fine story; guessed it would work; small town,
new business, lots of money to use. In fact, the attempt thus to save
a man is said to have been made, but, by ill luck, the man did not
recover. It answered my purpose, but how any one, even such an ass as
this fellow, could believe it could succeed puzzles me to this day.

File became enthusiastic over my scheme, and I cordially assisted his
credulity. The thing was to keep the wretch quiet until the business
blew up or--and I shuddered--until File, in despair, took his pill. I
should in any case find it wise to leave in haste.

My friend Stagers had some absurd misgivings lest Mr. File's neck might
be broken by the fall; but as to this I was able to reassure him upon
the best scientific authority. There were certain other and minor
questions, as to the effect of sudden, nearly complete arrest of the
supply of blood to the brain; but with these physiological refinements
I thought it needlessly cruel to distract a man in File's peculiar
position. Perhaps I shall be doing injustice to my own intellect if I
do not hasten to state again that I had not the remotest belief in
the efficacy of my plan for any purpose except to get me out of a very
uncomfortable position and give me, with time, a chance to escape.