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228 did it quietly and without any limelight, and for some definite purpose—usually a money one. I remember that the night of Léontine's party Chu-Chu spoke pretty bitterly about a play that had appeared at the Grand Guignol under his name. This sort of obituary notice of Chu-Chu was going through my head while I waited for the scufflers in the conservatory to come to terms and Chu-Chu to start to work again; and pretty soon the house got quiet, and I heard the little purr of the blow-lamp.

Up I went, knife in fist, impatient to be done with the business and out into the bright sunlight, with the perfume of the oleanders and the bird-songs. That was what I wanted—to be out in the bright upperworld again, a free man, with no vampire from the underworld dogging me in and out. Compunction? I had no more of it than the man who blows the head off a crocodile or sneaks out and poisons a wolf. That sort of sentimentality was never my trouble; and, between you and me, there's a lot of nonsense about the sacredness of human life, any way. Send 'em back where they came from, and let 'em start fresh! Next time, maybe, they'll get started on the right thread. As for the fairness or lack of it in stabbing to death an unsuspecting man—well, this wasn't exactly a sporting event, like a prize-fight or a duel. It was just a plain feud.

At the top of the stairs I paused to listen. The blow-lamp had stopped and the drill was at work again, but I didn't hear it, as one of the chauffeurs had started his motor for some reason, and the hum of it filled the place. A couple of seconds later I slipped down the hall and was looking through a