hear
a misguided soul deploring the so-called "third degree"--why, I have
something in pickle for _him_.

This, however, is not the place to open the pickle-jar.

Perhaps, though, Burke's suffering was as poignant as if his ordeal
were physical. How restlessly the man's slender, bloodless fingers
curled and uncurled! Still, his self-control was wonderful; his white
face remained indecipherable, the pale eyes stared at me unblinkingly
and without mirroring a single emotion that I could discern. Then the
change came so quickly that it almost caught me off my guard.

One hand shot to his bosom. When it re-appeared something flashed
dully in the dim light. At the same time, with a cat-like spring, he
was out of his chair and upon me.

I concentrated all my attention upon the hand that held the murderous
knife. I caught it as it lunged at me; then, with a quick twist, I
bent it backward and behind him, until he groaned with pain. The
long-bladed knife clattered to the floor, and I shoved him roughly away
from me. Then I picked up the weapon.

The fellow acted for all the world like a whipped and cowed panther.
He brought up violently against the wall, where, in a stooping posture,
he commenced running to and fro the width of the room, spitting and
snarling venomously. The pale eyes were no longer blank. The pupils
had widened, and the look of them was deadly.

I smiled with quiet satisfaction, for I knew that Burke was--as we
specify it in police parlance--"coming through."

After a while he quieted, and at last stood panting in the corner
farthest away from me. I pointed to the chair.

"Sit down," I said, precisely as if he had n't tried his best to murder
me but a minute before.

He moved slowly--fearfully--toward the chair, and sank into it. His
head was dropped forward, his shoulders were bowed, and the fingers
were no longer restless. All the man's defences were at last down.

"Now, then, Burke," I went on calmly, "I suppose we are ready to get
down to business?"

He muttered inaudibly, without raising his head.

"What's that?"--sharply,

"You devil!" he whispered.

"Yes, yes, I know. I 've heard that from you before. I don't care to
hear it again." I advanced and stood threateningly over him.

"Look at me," I sternly commanded.

Slowly he raised his head until his eyes met mine. The pallid mask was
pinched, and it wore a look of torment.

"Once for all, Burke, are you going to spe