“Not if your sense of values hasn’t got all tangled up, and you ascribe to him virtues which are not virtues—unless duty is a virtue—and confuse that which is great with that which is terrible.” Michael turned and, resting his palms on the table, looked across to the old man who confronted him. “I want you to come with me into Chichester this evening.” “Why?” The question was asked bluntly. “Because I think you’re a sick man, that you ought to have care.” The old man laughed and drew himself even more erect. “Sick? I was never better in my life, my dear sir, never fitter, never stronger!” And he looked all that he said. His height, the breadth of his shoulders, the healthy glow of his cheeks, all spoke of physical fitness. A long pause, and then: “Where is Gregory Penne?” asked Michael, emphasizing every word. “I haven’t the slightest idea.” The old man’s eyes met his without wavering. “We were talking about my great-uncle. You know him, of course?” he asked. “I knew him the first time I saw his picture, and I thought I had betrayed my knowledge, but apparently I did not. Your great-uncle”—Michael spoke deliberately—“was Sanson, otherwise Longval, hereditary executioner of France!” Such a silence followed that the ticking of a distant clock sounded distinctly. “Your uncle has many achievements to his credit. He hanged three men on a gallows sixty feet high, unless my memory is at fault. His hand struck off the head of Louis of France and his consort Marie Antoinette.” The look of pride in the old man’s face was startling. His eyes kindled, he seemed to grow in height. “By what fantastic freak of fate you come to have settled in England, what queer kink of mind decided you secretly to carry on the profession of Sanson and seek far and wide for poor, helpless wretches to destroy, I do not know.” Michael did not raise his voice, he spoke in a calm, conversational tone; and in the same way did Longvale reply. “Is it not better,” he said gently, “that a man should pass out of life through no act of his own, than that he should commit the unpardonable crime of self-murder? Have I not been a benefactor to men who dared not take their own lives?” “To Lawley Foss?” suggested Michael, his grave eyes fixed on the other. “He was a traitor, a vulgar blackmailer, a man who sought to use the knowledge which had accidentally come to him, to extract money from me.” “Where is Gregory Penne?” A slow smile dawned on the man’s face. “You will not believe me? That is ungentle, sir! I have not seen Sir Gregory.” Michael pointed to the hearth, where a cigarette was still smouldering. “There is that,” he said. “There are his muddy footprints on the carpet of this room. There is the cry I heard. Where is he?” Within reach of his hand was his heavy-calibred Browning. A move on the old man’s part, and he would lie maimed on the ground. Michael was dealing with a homicidal lunatic of the most dangerous type, and would not hesitate to shoot.