f the mournful privilege of the insane, to
fight without raising ire in one's antagonists, to smash with
impunity--to murder without being brought to justice.

Also he recognised that he had been a fool. He had acted like a
mad-man--that is to say, like a man furious with anger. Anger and
madness have awful similarities.

He moved slightly away from Simms.

"I reckon I've been a fool," said he, "three to one is not fair play.
Come, let my hands free, I won't fight any more."

"Certainly," said Simms. "But let me point out that we were not fighting
you in the least, only preventing you from taking a course detrimental
to your health. Cavendish, will you kindly untie that absurd
handkerchief?"

Cavendish obeyed, and Jones, his hands freed, rubbed his wrists.

"What are you going to do now?" asked he.

"Nothing," said Simms, "you are perfectly free, but we don't want you to
go out till your health is perfectly restored. I know, you will say that
you feel all right. No matter, take a physician's advice and just remain
here quiet for a little while. Shall we go to the library where you can
amuse yourself with the newspaper or a book whilst I make up a little
prescription for you?"

"Look here," said Jones. "Let's talk quietly for a moment--you think I'm
mad."

"Not in the least!" said Simms. "You are only suffering from a nerve
upset."

"Well, if I'm not mad you have no right to keep me here."

This was cunning, but, unfortunately, cunning like anger, is an
attribute of madness as well as of sanity.

"Now," said Simms, with an air of great frankness, "do you think that it
is for our pleasure that we ask you to stay here for a while? We are not
keeping you, just asking you to stay. We will go down to the library and
I will just have a prescription made up. Then, when you have considered
matters a bit you can use your own discretion about going."

Jones recognized at once that there was no use in trying to fight this
man with any other weapon than subtlety. He was fairly trapped. His tale
was such that no man would believe it, and, persisting in that tale, he
would be held as a lunatic. On top of the tale was Rochester's bad
reputation for sanity. They called him mad Rochester.

Then as he rose up and followed to the library, a last inspiration
seized him.

He stopped at the drawing-room door.

"Look here," said he, "one moment. I can prove what I say. You send out
a man to Philadelphia and make enquiries,