onicled." The speaker dropped the
prints upon the floor and lounged back in his big chair. "There is
Plutarch," he continued; "the account of the assassination of Caesar
is not the least interesting thing in his biography of that statesman.
Indeed, I have no doubt but that the chronicler thought Caesar's
taking off the most striking incident in his career; that the Roman
public thought so is a matter of history.

"Countless writers have dwelt upon the taking of human life; some of
them were rather commercial gentlemen who always gave an ear to the
demands of their public, and their screeds were written for the money
that they would put in their pockets; but others, and by long odds the
greatest, were fascinated by their subjects. Both Stevenson and Henley
were powerfully drawn by deeds of blood. Did you know they planned a
great book which was to contain a complete account of the world's most
remarkable homicides? I'm sorry they never carried the thing out; for
I cannot conceive of two minds more fitted to the task. They would
have dressed every event in the grimmest and most subtle horror; why,
the soul would have shuddered at each enormity as shaped and presented
by such masters."

Pendleton regarded his friend with candid distaste.

"You are appalling to-day," said he. "If you think it's the Greek
tobacco, let me know. For I have to mingle with other human beings,
and I'd scarcely care to get into your state of mind."

The strong, white teeth of Ashton-Kirk showed in a quick smile.

"The tobacco was recommended by old Hosko," he said, "and you'll find
nothing violent in it, no matter what you find in my conversation."

"What put you into such a frame of mind, anyway? Something happened?"

But Ashton-Kirk shook his head.

"I don't know," said he. "In fact, I have been strangely idle for the
last fortnight. The most exciting things that have appeared above my
personal horizon have been a queer little edition of Albertus-Magnus,
struck off in an obscure printing shop in Florence in the early part
of the sixteenth century, and a splendid, large paper Poe, to which I
fortunately happened to be a subscriber."

A volume of the Poe and the Albertus-Magnus were lying at hand;
Pendleton ignored the dumpy, stained little Latin volume; its
strong-smelling leather binding and faded text had no attractions for
him. But he took up the Poe and began idly turning its leaves.

"It is a mistake to suppose that some specific