"I have been used to this kind of thing from a boy," the cripple said. "I
could shoot you where you sit within a hair's breadth of where I wanted
to hit you."

"Which would be murder," Gurdon said quietly.

"Perhaps it would, in the eyes of the law; but there are times when one
is tempted to defy the mandates of a wise legislature. For instance, I
have told you more than once before that I have enemies, and everything
points to the fact that you are the tool and accomplice of some of them.
I have about me one or two faithful people, who would do anything I ask.
If I shoot you now the report of a weapon like this will hardly be
audible beyond the door. You lie there, dead, shot clean through the
brain. I ring my bell and tell my servants to clear this mess away. I
give them orders to go and bury it quietly somewhere, and they would obey
me without the slightest hesitation. Nothing more would be said. I should
be as safe from molestation as if the whole thing had happened on a
desert island. I hope I have succeeded in making the position clear,
because I should be loth to think that a little incident like this should
cause inconvenience to one who might after all have been absolutely
innocent."

The words were spoken quietly, and without the slightest trace of
passion. Still, there was no mistaking the malignity and intense fury
which underlay the well chosen and well balanced sentences.

Gurdon was silent; there was nothing for him to say. He was in a position
in which he could not possibly explain; he could only sit there, looking
into the barrel of the deadly weapon, and praying for some diversion
which might be the means of saving his life. It came presently in a