"A bit of melodramatics, Ferdy," smiled Griswold. "So you thought that I was going to kill you? Forget all that. Amanda—a skull and a few bones now or a handful of ashes—is nothing to me, the memory of her even less than that. The world is full of fools, but there is not a bigger fool in it than the man or woman who would keep husband or wife when the heart of that husband or wife belongs to another. Of course, if you love the one who is going—as I loved Amanda—the loss is a bitter one. But it is in such moments that a man proves himself either a philosopher or a fool. If a fool, he is going to kill the lover or kill them both. If a philosopher, he says, 'Since she no longer cares for me and wants another, let her go,' and he consoles himself with the thought that she isn't the only fish in this puddle that men call life.
"As for the threats that you mentioned—well, I admit them, though they were largely melodramatics, Ferdy, as witness to the fact that, when the test came, I proved myself a philosopher. For do not think that I didn't follow you because I couldn't find you. I repeat, I was a philosopher. It was a bitter hour, but I said, 'Let her go, and may she find with him the happiness that she failed to find with me.' Yes, Ferdy, it was a cruel stroke; but that is what I said. And I would say it again."
"I am glad," said Chantrell after some hesitation, "that you look at it in so sensible a manner."
"The only thing, Ferdy, I wish that she had done the sensible, the decent thing—that she had waited and got a divorce. But I, with my cursed melodramatics—always was that way, Ferdy—am to blame for that, I suppose, and I hope that she'll forgive me for it. Well, it is done, and it can not be mended. Peace to her soul."
Ferdinand Chantrell made no response. He was regarding the other in a searching, wondering manner. What was he to make of this strange business? Had Griswold's fearful threat, after all, been nothing but melodramatics? Or was this some fiendish cunning of a man fiendish and half mad?
"But come," said Griswold, turning. "Step into the tub, and we'll go out to the Gorgon, and I'll get you something to eat. Deuce of a way ttreat a man who is half famished—telling him that you are going to murder him and feed him to the fishes! But sometimes, you know, Ferdy, a fellow must have his little joke."
"Joke! If all your jokes are of that grisly species, I hope that you'll never spring another on me."
"Ha, ha!" said Griswold, shoving off. "I fooled you that time. Admit it, Ferdy: you thought that I really meant it—meant to kill you."
"You certainly had a bloodthirsty, horrible look in your eye."
"Ha, ha!" barked Griswold.
"But why," Chantrell asked, "did you do it?"
"Just my idea of a little joke, Ferdy. Just a bit of melodramatics, as I said. Always was a weakness of mine. It has got me into a scrape more than once, but I could never resist it when the chance offered. I have been told a good many times that I missed my true vocation when I did not become an actor."
"If," said his victim, "all yonr acting could have been as real as that of a few minutes ago, you certainly did."
"I suppose so, Ferdy. But here's the Gorgon, and I'll have you a feed in a jiffy."
Joke? Griswold grinned and chuckled to himself. A joke? It was a joke indeed. An actor? If that infernal fool only knew the truth! But he didn't. That was what made it a joke. Ferdy thought that he was going to live; that his, Griswold's, fearful threat had been nothing but melo-
