He packed the trousers and walked up and down the room, pondering darkly. It was a tempting piece of villainy to kick Huckaby back into the gutter. In a flash it could be done. But, as in all his attempted acts of vileness, the co-ordination between brain and will failed at the critical moment. A new aspect of the case flashed upon his disordered mind, showing an even more diabolical way of achieving Huckaby’s ruin than throwing him back into the gutter. By a curious transmogrification, it was he, Quixtus, who now blazed luridly as the Master of Mischief, and Huckaby as the shrinking innocent. The enforced association of the shrinking innocent with the Master of Mischief could have no other result than the constant sapping of the victim’s volition and the gradual but certain degradation of his soul. To accomplish this was a refinement of devilry far beyond the imagination of his favourite fiend Macathiel. He decided promptly and halted in front of his former myrmidon. It was once more necessary for him, however, like the villain in the old melodrama, to dissemble. He smiled and laid his hand on Huckaby’s shoulder. “All right,” said he, in the old, kind voice that in the past had so often stabbed Huckaby’s conscience. “I’ll give you the chance. Just stick loyally to me. Stay with the ladies in Paris, and when I come back we can talk about things.” Huckaby gripped his hand. “Thank you, Quixtus. I wish I could tell you—I’ve known all along—” he stammered in a hoarse voice—“Oh, I’ve played the devil with everything—and I don’t know which is the damneder fool of us two.” “I am quite certain,” said Quixtus with a conscious smile, which he assumed was Mephistophelean. “I am quite certain, my dear Huckaby, that you are.”