He inhaled deeply of his cigarette, and faced the little man again. And The Master looked so benevolent that he seemed absolutely cherubic, and there was absolutely no sign of anything but the utmost saintliness about him. His eyes were clear and mild. His complexion was fresh and translucent. The wrinkles that showed upon his face were those of an amiable and a serene soul filled with benevolence and charity. He looked like one of those irritatingly optimistic old gentlemen who habitually carry small coins and stray bits of candy in their pockets for such small children as they may converse with under the smiling eyes of nurses. "Ah, Senor Bell," he said gently. "You do cause me to admire you. May I see your hands again?" Bell held them out. He seemed to have conquered their writhing to some extent. But he could not hold them quite still. Sweat stood out on his forehead. He thrust them abruptly out of sight again. "Sad," said The Master gently. "Very sad." He sighed faintly and laid down the rose he had been toying with. His fingers caressed the soft petals delicately. "Fortunately," he said benevolently, "it is not yet too late for me to relieve the strain under which you labor, Senor. May I send for a certain medicine which will dispose of those symptoms in a very short time?" "We'll talk first," said Bell harshly. "I want to hear what you have to say." * * * * * The Master nodded, his fingers touching the rose petals as if in a sensitive pleasure in their texture. "Always courageous," he said benignly. "I admire it while I combat it. But the Senor Jamison...." Jamison had been looking fascinatedly at his own hands, opening and closing the fingers with a savage abruptness. They obeyed him, though they trembled. "I didn't drink the damned stuff that hotel keeper brought us last night," he growled. "Bell did. And I--" "Wait a minute, Jamison," said Bell evenly. "Let's talk to The Master for a while. I swore, sir," he said grimly, "that I'd kill you. I've seen what your devilish poison does, in the hands of the men you've chosen to distribute it. I've seen"--he swallowed and said harshly--"I've seen enough to make me desire nothing so much as to see you roast in hell! But you wanted to talk to me. Go ahead!" * * * * * The Master beamed at him, and then glanced about at the frock-coated men who had been attending him. Bell glanced at them. Ribiera was there, chuckling. "I told you, _tio mio_," he said familiarly, "that he would not be polite. You can do nothing with him. Better have him shot." Francia, of Paraguay, nodded amusedly to Bell as their eyes met. But The Master shook his really rather beautiful head. An old man can be good to look at, and with a saintly aureole of snow-white hair and the patriarchal white beard, The Master was the picture of benign and beautiful old age.