"Didn't Dr. Van Stoke come with you?" Mr. Sims asked. "I wanted him to see the place he sends everyone." "He went on an ocean cruise," young Mike said. "Dr. Van Stoke? You mean he left his practice?" "Yeah," the little boy answered. "Another doctor took his place." Mr. Sims turned to the others for corroboration. "Is that right? I didn't think Van Stoke was a rich man. He was only around forty." "He went with the money Uncle Nat gave him," the boy said. "That'll be enough, Michael," Nat ordered sternly. * * * * * Mr. Sims laughed. "You're mistaken, Mike. Uncle Nat wouldn't give the doctor any money. He hasn't even got enough for himself." "But he quit his job yesterday," said the boy. Nat's voice cut in sharply. "That's enough from you. You know what they say about little boys." Mr. Sims looked steadily at Nat as though seeing him for the first time. His cousin gazed back, half-sullen, half-defiant. "It certainly didn't take you long to get your hands on the money," Mr. Sims said. "It looks as if I can't die soon enough. But I still don't see where Dr. Van Stoke comes into--" Then suddenly there was no need to ask. The answer was clear on Nat's tight, sullen face. Mr. Sims turned to the others for help and froze as identical expressions stared back coldly from each of them, piercing him with their long-hidden envy of his success, their pent-up hatred of their dependence on him. A choking, frightened sound came from deep in Mr. Sims' throat. "For God's sake! _How much did you pay him to put me away?_" He jumped quickly off the parapet, knocking the little boy to the ground, and hurled the hemlock into the fountain. He pushed his way past them and started to run. Then the woven garment twisted about his legs. He tried to lift it clear, but his foot caught in the hem and he stumbled. Nat was the first to move. He picked up the little toy dagger and fell on the struggling man. Without hesitating, he plunged the knife between Mr. Sims' shoulder blades and held it till the older man was still. Then he stabbed again, without malice, without any emotion ... again and again.... The blade made an odd ripping sound each time it pierced the woven robe. All of them looked away. One of the women leaned over the parapet, sick. * * * * * When he was finally done, Nat stood up and cleaned the knife on the grass and then motioned them all back toward the palace. Mr. Hoode met them as they walked through the foyer. "Ah, Socrates' friends!" he said to Nat, who was dabbing at the front of his coat with a piece of tissue. "Was everything in order?" "There was a slight change of plan," Nat said. "He decided at the last moment to make it Julius Caesar." He held the knife up in explanation. "_Julius Caesar!_ But--" But they were gone, filing out through the front door, the women sobbing in their handkerchiefs. No one looked back.