Mr. Hartz had now smoked the enchanted cigarette; his ideas were clearer, his thoughts less turgid, but he was not yet convinced that any good end would be served by admitting the mysterious Wygram to his confidence. Still, he hoped for enlightenment, perhaps for a little advice. Many whom the world accounted wise had bestowed upon this man undeniable credentials. The visitor’s perplexity seemed rather to amuse Wygram. “As a proof of my _bona fides_,” he said, after a pause that held a threat of embarrassment, “allow me to indicate your business. It has to do, unless I am greatly mistaken, with the murder of Garland.” Skeptical as he was, Hartz could not repress a start of surprise. “How did you find out that?” “A simple matter. I claim no supranatural power: at least as far as you are concerned, and as up till now your affairs have been presented to me. But there is a science of deduction, even if of late years it has been sadly blown upon by writers of fiction. In other words, two and two still make four--at all events in a three-dimensional universe.” Saul Hartz was a little impressed. “You claim access to the fourth dimension?” he asked, rather naïvely. “It will be more immediately profitable, I think, if, for the moment, we keep strictly within the scope of this inquiry. You are troubled by the murder of Garland. I use the word ‘murder’ advisedly. You would like to ask why? But let us pass on to its bearing upon your own affairs. Why, Mr. Hartz, are you troubled by this man Garland’s end? I hope you’ll agree that it was richly deserved.” “An arch-blackguard, certainly.” “And therefore his fate was merited?” “Ye-es. Perhaps. But I don’t hold with murder.” As Saul Hartz spoke, a pair of vivid eyes completely absorbed him. “_You_ don’t hold with murder?” The sensitive lips had a slight curl of scorn. “No, sir, I do not.” The emphasis of the Colossus amounted almost to indignation. “But why take it for granted that Garland was murdered?” “Beyond a doubt he was murdered.” Proofs were asked for. “He was warned by the Council of Seven,” said Wygram. Hartz gazed intently at the man on the ground. “So you know about the Council of Seven?” In spite of himself he could not keep an odd tremor out of his voice. “Oh, yes,” said Wygram. “Perhaps I know as much about the Society of the Friends of Peace as any man alive.” An imperious curiosity suddenly devoured Saul Hartz. “A member of it, eh?” A feeling of intense repugnance governed the framing of the question. Wygram said calmly that he was not a member of the Society. “But if you were”--Mr. Hartz disdained finesse where his feelings were deeply engaged--“you would have to deny it, I presume?” “Expedient, no doubt,” said Wygram dryly. “But I assure you the need doesn’t arise.”