"It is time to die now," said Maraj. "Which way do you prefer? Painless, of course. They all seek painless ways, as if that made any difference! Die! Do you hear me? Kill yourself!" He turned to Quorn: "The poor fool threatened me. He had the impudence to order me. He said he would betray me unless I slew you out of hand. He could do it, too; he could have betrayed me easily if I had let him. But he hasn't much intelligence. Let us see which way he chooses." He sat down close to Quorn and waited, watching his victim, who seemed several times as if going to speak--and as if then the uselessness of speech occurred to him. He even seemed to try to summon dignity, but found none. "What will you do?" Maraj asked. "You have no knife--no rope. How will you kill yourself?" Quorn spoke again, surprised by the impersonal aloofness of his own voice, that sounded as if it belonged to some one else. "Why not have a crack at killing _him_, you idiot!" he heard himself say to the terrified prisoner, "I'll help you if you'll loose me some way." Maraj chuckled. "Why not?" he suggested. "Would that not be suicide? Try killing me!" The man found speech again. Quorn's voice seemed to have stirred lees of manhood in him. He spoke in the native tongue cold-calmly, every word a concentrated curse. "You offspring of all the dogs that ever lay in filth! You soul of stinks! You carcass of--" * * * * * He rushed him suddenly--and died that instant. He who had called himself Maraj stepped sidewise with the skill of a toreador in the arena. No eye could have followed the speed of the silken handkerchief that licked across the man's neck and killed him infinitely more neatly than a hangman's rope. It left no mark on him. It severed him from life; and was out of sight again before the knees could yield under his weight and let him begin falling to the floor; and yet he fell as if there never had been life in him nor any bones to keep him straight. "That is the art of Thuggee, so-called," said Maraj. "Isn't it brilliant? In a world where so many forms of death are messy, what do you candidly think of a so-called government that tries to stamp out and abolish such a mystery as that? Mind you, it is a mystery. It is more than an art. "You couldn't learn it--not in fifty years--not even though I should be fool enough to try to teach you." He rolled the body over with his foot, then sat by Quorn again. For a moment or two he paused as if turning over matters of importance in his mind. Then: "Don't you think they ought to make me public executioner? It would make me so happy. It would save them so much trouble. Often I make a victim really kill himself, but that fool's fear was of the sort that is not easy to control. He was not sentimental. You are. Where have you hidden your elephant?" "He ain't mine," Quorn answered.