“No,” persisted Pollard, “an impelling—a compelling motive. Why, there’s Gleason now. I can’t bear that man. Yet I scarcely know him. I’ve met him but a few times—had little or no personal conversation with him—yet I dislike him. Not detest or hate or despise—merely dislike him. And, some day I’m going to kill him.” “Going to kill all the folks you dislike?” asked Barry, indifferently. “Maybe. If I dislike them enough. But that Gleason offends my taste. I can’t stand him about. So, as I say, I’m going to kill him. And I hold that the impulse that drives me to the deed is the strongest murder motive a man can have.” “Don’t talk rubbish, Manning,” and young Monroe gave him a frightened glance, as if he thought Pollard in earnest. “It isn’t altogether rubbish,” said Doctor Davenport, as he rose to go, “there’s a grain of truth in Pollard’s contention. A rooted dislike of another is a bad thing to have in your system. Have it cut out, Pollard.” “You didn’t mean it, did you, Manning?” Monroe spoke diffidently, almost shyly, with a scared glance at Pollard. The latter turned and looked at him with a smile. Then, glaring ferociously, he growled, “Of course I did! And if you get yourself disliked, I’ll kill you, too! _Booh!_” They all laughed at Monroe’s frightened jump, as Pollard Booh’d into his face, and Doctor Davenport said, “Look out, Pollard, don’t scare our young friend into fits! And, remember, Monroe, ‘Threatened men live long?’ I’ve my car—anybody want a lift anywhere?” “Take me, will you?” said Dean Monroe, and willingly enough, Doctor Davenport carried the younger man off in his car. “You oughtn’t to do it, Pol, you know,” Barry gently remonstrated. “Poor little Monroe thinks you’re a gory villain, and he’ll mull over your fool remarks till he’s crazy—more crazy than he is already.” “Let him,” said Pollard, smiling indifferently. “I only spoke the truth—as to that motive, I mean. Don’t you want to kill that Gleason every time you see him?” “You make him seem like a cat—with nine or more lives! How _can_ you kill a man every time you see him? It isn’t done!” The two men left the Club together, and walked briskly down Fifth Avenue. “Going to the Lindsays’ to-night, of course?” asked Barry, as they reached Forty-fifth Street, where he turned off. “Yes. You?” “Yes. See you later, then. You gather that Gleason has annexed the pretty Phyllis?” “Looks like it, doesn’t it? I suppose the announcement will be made to-night at the dinner or the dance.” “Suppose so. How I hate to see it that way. I’m in love with that little beauty myself.” “Who isn’t?” returned Pollard, smiling, and then Barry turned off in his own street, and Pollard went on down toward his home, a small hotel on West Fortieth.