"Talking about murder, I've to confess that at Versailles I felt the impulse again. You know that infernal Galerie des Glaces? Well, of a sudden the multiplication of Farrell's face and the bald spot at the back of his head came near to overpowering me. We had escaped, too, from the wandering sightseers, and stood isolated at the end of the vast hall. . . . High sniffing dilettanti may say what they like, but Versailles is what Jimmy would call a 'knock-out.' The very first view of the Grand Avenue had knocked Farrell out, at all events, and he had stared at the great fountains, and followed me through courts and galleries in mere bedazement, speechless, with eyes like a fish's, round and bulging and glassy. . . . He looked so funny, standing there . . . so small . . . and yet actually, I suppose, taller than the late King Louis Quatorze by three inches. . . . Somewhere outside on a terrace a band was playing things from the _Mariage de Figaro_--Figaro, at Versailles of all places! . . . In short the world had gone pretty mad for a moment, and for that moment I felt that, in this _bizarrerie_ of contrast it might dignify our quarrel if Farrell died amid such magnificent surroundings. . . . But I conquered the impulse all right: and this, the third time, was the easiest." "I got him away to the Little Trianon: and there in its gardens-- as you would lay in the shade a patient suffering from sunstroke--I conducted him to a seat under the spring boughs beside the little lake that reflects the Hameau. He stared on the green turf at our feet, and across at the grouped rustic buildings, all as pretty as paint, and came out of his stupor with a long sigh. "'A-ah!' he murmured. 'That's better! That does me good.' "Then I knew that it was coming: that I must break his fate to him. I even gave him the prompt-word. "'Homelike,' I suggested. "'You've hit it,' he said, and paused. 'No place like Home! I'm glad enough to have seen all that show yonder.' He waved a hand. 'But I wouldn't be one of these kings, not if you paid me. . . . Look here, we'll cross to-morrow, eh? Of course, if you prefer to stay behind--' "'I'm not going to stay behind,' said I, throwing away my cigarette. "'Capital! We'll wind up with a dinner at the Savoy--' "'Cold roast beef and mixed pickles,' I put in. "He chuckled. 'Clever fellow, that Caffyn--made my mouth water, he did. We'll wind up at the Savoy, and talk over another trip that we'll take together, one of these days. For I shall miss your company, Doctor.' "'No, you won't,' said I, lighting a fresh cigarette.