has been, how shall I kill you? I might kill you with the knife with which you endeavoured to kill me." As he spoke, he tested the keenness of the blade with his fingers. "With it I might slit your throat from ear to ear, or I might use it in half a hundred different ways. Or I might shoot you like a dog." Producing a revolver, he pointed it at Mr. Howitt's head. "Sit quite still, Andrew, or I may be tempted to flatten your nose with a bullet. You know I can shoot straight. Or I might avail myself of this."
Still keeping the revolver pointed at Mr. Howitt's head, he took from his waistcoat pocket a small syringe.
"This, Andrew, is a hypodermic syringe. I have but to take firm hold of you, thrust the point into one of the blood-vessels of your neck, and inject the contents; you will at once endure exquisite tortures which, after two or three minutes, which will seem to you like centuries, will result in death. But I have resolved to do myself, and you, this service, with neither of the three."
Again the stranger stopped. This time Mr. Howitt made no attempt to speak. He was not a pleasant object to contemplate. As the other had said, to judge from his appearance he already seemed to be suffering some of the pangs of death. All the manhood had gone from him. Only the shell of what was meant to be a man remained. The exhibition of his pitiful cowardice afforded his whilom partner unqualified pleasure.
"Have you ever heard of an author named De Quincey? He wrote on murder, considered as a fine
