‘Well, you take the matter coolly enough,’ the Frenchman smiled. ‘Any one would think you were used to this sort of thing.’ ‘I should like to have caught some of those expressions,’ Maxwell replied. ‘They would make a man’s fortune if he could get them on canvas. What do you think of an Academy picture entitled “The Conspirators?”—And now, will you be good enough to explain this little farce to me?’ His cool, contemptuous tones knocked Le Gautier off his balance for a moment, but he quickly recovered his habitual cynicism. ‘There will be a pendant to that picture, called “The Vengeance;” or, if you like it better, “The Assassination,”’ he replied with a sneer. ‘Surely you do not think I dealt these cards for amusement? No, my friend; a life was at stake there, perhaps two.’ ‘A life at stake? Do you mean that I am to play the part of murderer to a man unknown to me—an innocent man?’ ‘Murder is not a pleasant word,’ Le Gautier replied coldly. ‘We prefer the expression “remove,” as being more elegant, and not so calculated to shock the nerves of novices—like yourself. Your perspicacity does you credit, sir. Your arm is the one chosen to strike Visci down.’ ‘Gracious powers!’ Maxwell exclaimed, falling back into his chair faint and dizzy. ‘I stain my hand with an unoffending man’s blood? Never! I would die first. I never dreamt—I never thought—— Salvarini, I did not think you would lead me into this!’ ‘I warned you,’ the Italian said mournfully. ‘As far as I dared, I told you what the consequences would be.’ ‘If you had told me you were a gang of callous, bloodthirsty murderers, I should not have joined you. I, like every Englishman, am the friend of liberty as much as you, but no cowardly dagger-thrust for me. Do your worst, and come what may, I defy you!’ ‘A truce to these histrionics,’ Le Gautier exclaimed fiercely; ‘or we shall hold a Council, and serve you the same. There are your orders. I am your superior. Take them, and obey. Refuse, and’—— He stopped, folding his arms, and looked Maxwell full in the face for a moment; then turning abruptly upon his heel, quitted the room without another word. Maxwell and his friend confronted each other. ‘And who is this Visci I am to murder?’ the artist demanded bitterly. Salvarini bowed his head lower and lower till his face almost rested upon his breast. ‘You know him,’ he said. ‘He was a good friend of mine once, and his crime is the one you are contemplating now—disobedience to orders. Is it possible you have not guessed the doomed man to be Carlo Visci?’ ‘Carlo Visci—my friend, my more than brother? I must be mad, mad or dreaming. Lay foul hands upon the best friend man ever had—the noble-hearted fellow whose purse was mine, who taught me all I know, who saved my life; and I to stab him in the dark because, perchance, he refuses to serve a companion the same! Never! May my right hand rot off, before I injure a hair of Carlo Visci’s head!’