I dropped him on to the floor, where he lay like a log, struggling to get back some of his breath. I picked up his revolver. It was a natty little thing, though not of the kind one carries where a gun is one of the chief necessities of existence. There a gun, to be worth anything, should send a bullet through an inch board at the distance of a dozen yards; it was all his would do to send a bullet through the skin of a man, I locked the door, and I waited for him to get his breath again. “When you are ready, Dr. Hume.” I sat and watched him. He had followed me with his eyes as I moved about the room; starting as I picked up his pistol. Now he returned me glance for glance. He was getting the better of his breathlessness; and presently raised himself to a sitting posture. “You should be in a freak museum, Ferguson.” “Indeed. Why?” “You’re a prodigy of bone and muscle.” “You should remember it.” “I’ve but just now made the discovery. I shall have to refurbish my faith in the labours of Hercules and the story of Samson.” He was, as it were, arranging himself inside his clothes. “I don’t resent your physical configuration; it’s educative, as showing what the strength of a man may be. It’s a pity you should be a----Are you only a fool, or are you something else as well?” He stood up, still arranging himself inside his clothes. He pointed to the plum-coloured cloak. “What’s this?” “It’s what I’m going to wring your neck for.” “Is that so? I don’t doubt your capacity, but why exercise it in this particular instance?” “Then you must satisfy me that, though the heavens fall, no one outside this room shall ever learn there is such a garment in existence--and that you’ll find it difficult to do.” “You wish me to tell no one of what I’ve found?” “It’s not an affair of a wish.” “Ferguson, you’re stark mad.” “You’ve told me so before. You’re a specialist. You should know that a homicidal lunatic is not the sort to trifle with. Label me like that.” “But you’re mad in the wrong direction.” “What’s the right direction to be mad?” “That cloak’s Miss Moore’s.” “You’re a liar.” “Let me inform you that to save her from harm I’d give my life.” “Say that again.” “To save her from harm I’d give my life. It sounds like bombast, but it’s plain truth.” “Hume, I may be mad, but I’m not so mad as you think.” “You’re madder, if you don’t believe me I don’t know why I should make a confidant of you, of all men; but there are illogical moments in which men feel constrained to strip themselves bare. Perhaps this is such a moment in my life. Miss Moore is the only woman I ever loved. That’s a line from a play, but it’s true, for all that.” “Why do you say it to me?” “What’s the meaning of that cloak being in your wardrobe?” “Why did you go to my wardrobe to look for it?”