ers.

"Commonplace," said he. "And sordid. I am inclined to agree with De
Quincey's 'Toad-in-the-Hole' that the age of great criminals has
passed."

The man to whom he spoke sat opposite him in the lounging room of
Scanlon's Gymnasium; a pair of puffy white hands were folded over a
bloated paunch; he had a sodden air of over-feeding and
over-stimulation.

"And a good job, too," spoke this gentleman. "We can get along very well
without those fellows."

"I am not sure that I quite agree with that," said Ashton-Kirk. He
lighted a cigar and its smoke drifted across the high ceilinged room.
"Crimes are growing no fewer; and if we must have crimes I should
personally prefer their perpetrators to have some little artistry."

The swollen gentleman grunted.

"You were always an odd kind of fish," said he. "But, you know, every
one hasn't your love of this kind of thing."

"They have not given it the same amount of consideration, that is all.
An artist in crime is, in his way, well worthy of a certain sort of
admiration. Who could drive a knife in a man's back with a braver air of
deviltry than Benvenuto Cellini? And yet he could turn himself from the
deed and devote himself to the producing of a Perseus, or to playing the
flute well enough to attract the attention of a Pope. And his own
countrymen, the Borgias, had as pretty a talent for assassination as
they had for government."

"Very like," admitted the other. "But ain't we well rid of such
bloodthirsty apes?"

Ashton-Kirk smiled.

"I wonder," said he, "if you have ever read an engaging little volume
called 'A Book of Scoundrels.' No? Well, I was afraid that would be so.
And you have missed a treat. However, I suppose we can't expect every
one to enthuse over such things. It has been said of music that the
ability to appreciate it is only second to that of being able to produce
it. And this must also be true in the case of crime.

"Stevenson, now, had a magnificent appreciation for a well executed
enormity. In his story 'Markheim' he gives a skilful picture of a
really deft assassination; and in the 'Suicide Club' he has created what
I would class as a master criminal. The Russian writers have a power in
this mood that is truly wonderful. Dostoyeffsky in his 'Crime and
Punishment' has conceived a most tremendous homicide--one which would
have thrilled De Quincey himself."

The listener held up one pudgy hand in protest.

"Don't," he requested. "Please don't.