Fernet shrugged. “I am in his hands,” he answered, sweeping his arm toward Minetti. “You mean you will be,” muttered the hunchback, in an undertone. Fernet heard him distinctly. “Perhaps I had better leave him while there is yet time!” flashed through his mind. But the next instant he thought, contemptuously: “What harm can he do me? Why, his wrist is no bigger than a pullet’s wing. Bah! You are a fool, André Fernet!” ―――― They stepped out into the street. A languorous note was in the air; the usual cool wind from the sea had not risen. A waning moon silvered the roof-tops, making a pretense of hiding its face in the thin line of smoke above Telegraph Hill. The hunchback led the way, trotting along in a fashion almost Oriental. At the end of the second block he turned abruptly into a wine-shop; Fernet followed. They found seats in a far corner, away from the billiard-tables. A waiter came forward. They gave their orders. “Be sure,” said Minetti to the waiter, “that we have plenty of anisette and cognac in the coffee.” The man flicked a towel rather contemptuously and made no answer. “Now,” Minetti continued, turning a mocking face toward Fernet, “what can I do for you, my friend?” Fernet was filled with confusion. “I ... you ...” he stammered. “Really, there is nothing. Believe me—” “Nonsense,” interrupted Minetti. “You wish to know who killed Suvaroff. But I warn you, my friend, it is a dreadful thing to share such a secret.” He looked at Fernet intently. The younger man shuddered. “Nevertheless, I should like to know,” Fernet said, distinctly. “Well, then, since you are so determined—it was I who killed him.” Fernet stared, looked again at the hunchback’s puny wrists, and began to laugh. “_You!_ Do you take me for a fool?” And as he said this he threw back his head and laughed until even the billiard-players stopped their game and looked around at him. “What are you laughing at?” asked the hunchback, narrowing his eyes. Fernet stopped. He felt a sudden chill as if some one had opened a door. “I am laughing at you,” he answered. “I am sorry for that,” said Minetti, dryly. “Why?” The hunchback leaned forward confidentially. “Because I kill every one who laughs at me. It—it is a little weakness I have.” The waiter came with two glasses of steaming coffee. He put them down on the table, together with a bottle of cognac and a bottle of anisette. “Ah, that is good!” cried the hunchback, rubbing his hands together. “The proprietor is my friend. He is going to let us prepare our own poison!” Fernet felt himself shivering. “Come,” he thought, “this will never do! The man is either mad or jesting.” He reached for the anisette. “Let me pour it for you,” suggested Flavio Minetti. “Your hand is shaking so that you will spill half of it on the floor.” The hunchback’s voice had a note of pity in it. Fernet relinquished his hold upon the bottle.