e class; he don't only use 'em for moral suasion under arms,
but he makes you smell the blood and hear the thunder!"

Colonel Cheffins seemed to have had enough at last; he rose to go with
rather a perfunctory laugh, and I jumped up to see him out on the plea
of something I had to say about his damaged door and window.

"For God's sake, sir, get your revolver back from him!" was what I
whispered down below. "He's not himself. He hasn't been his own man for
over a year. Get it back from him before he takes a turn for the worse
and--and----"

"I know what you mean," said the colonel, "but I don't believe it's as
bad as you think. I'll see what I can do. I might say I've smashed the
other, but I mustn't say it too soon or he'll smell a rat. I must leave
him to you meanwhile, Mr. Gillon, but I honestly believe it's all talk."

And so did I as the dapper little coach smiled cheerily under the hall
lamp, and I shut the door on him and ran up to Uvo's room two steps at a
time. But on the threshold I fell back, for an instant, as though that
accursed revolver covered me; for he was seated at his desk, his back to
the room, his thumb on the trigger--and the muzzle in his right ear.

I crept upon him and struck it upwards with a blow that sent the weapon
flying from his grasp. It had not exploded; it was in my pocket before
he could turn upon me with a startled oath.

"What are you playing at, my good fellow?" cried he.

"What are _you_?"

And my teeth chattered with the demand.

"What do you suppose? You didn't think I'd gone and loaded it, did you?
I was simply seeing--if you want to know--whether one would use one's
forefinger or one's thumb. I've quite decided on the thumb."

"Uvo," I said, pouring out more whisky than I intended, "this is more
than I can stick even from you, old fellow! You've gone on and on about
this infernal shooter till I never want to see one in my life again. If
you meant to blow out your brains this very night, you couldn't have
said more than you have done. What rhyme or reason is there in such
crazy talk?"

"I didn't say it was either poetry or logic," he answered, filling his
pipe. "But it's a devilish fascinating idea."

"The idea of wanton suicide? You call that fascinating?"

"Not as an end. It's a poor enough end. I was thinking of the means--the
cold trigger against your finger--the cold muzzle in your ear--the one
frightful bang and then the Great What Next!"

"The Great What