"Well, Andrew," said Dr. Gentian, pleasantly, "I am sorry to see you so unkempt. I wish I could lend you a razor. When I was in prison at Poona," he continued reflectively, rubbing his chin, "I managed to shave with a broken cowrie-shell. But it was a painful expedient, at best. I should not advise its imitation, though it passes the time as well as trying to tame a rat. I wonder at the patience of those men who find prison-rats so easy to tame. Mine were savage little beasts--Orpheus himself could not have made them affable." He broke off, tracing a little pattern with his right thumb in the silver scrollwork on the butt of Andrew's pistol. The two were alone--the soldiers had retired outside the door. Andrew, through lowered lids calculated the distance between them and the possibility of springing across the table and getting that firm throat between his hands before the balanced forefinger could pull the trigger. "I wouldn't," said the doctor, smiling. "This priming happens to be dry and--let me compliment you on your taste in small-arms, Andrew. You may not have observed it, but this particular pistol is a weapon of delightful precision. I experimented with it this morning upon a humming-bird--the poor thing was blown into feathers at twenty paces." "What do you want with me?" said Andrew, heavily. His eyes were still blinking with the unaccustomed plenty of daylight in this windowed room. He had almost forgotten there were such rooms, he realized, now--and realized too, distastefully, the scarecrow figure he must cut before the Immaculate Doctor. His clothes were ragged and foul--dirty stubble covered his face--he had not been clean for days. His eyes were furtive--his body had a prison smell to it--when he walked, he walked like a prisoner, with a heavy, shuffling step. In a tale, such tiny things would not matter to the heroic captive--it was monstrously unfair that they should matter now. "I wanted to see you, Andrew," said the Doctor, softly, "and now that I have, I confess myself satisfied." Andrew hardly heard him--his mind was busy with a different problem. "For God's sake tell them to give me a clean shirt, you devil!" he burst out suddenly, and instantly felt ashamed. The Doctor laughed. "Your request is quaintly put," he said, with enjoyment, "but I'll grant it. You shall have a clean shirt--yes, Andrew--and soap and a razor--and go wherever you wish. For a price, of course," he added, tracing his pattern. Andrew had straightened up at the first of his words. Now his shoulders sagged again. "There would be," he said, flatly, "No." "You haven't heard my terms yet," said the Doctor. "I ask very little. Only a lapse of memory." He looked at Andrew but Andrew did not reply.