“Only when in possession of his proper faculties,” said the doctor, dismally. “And an amiable disposition?” “With suicidal tendencies, hang it!” “I should have thought,” said Welsh, with a laugh, “that they would only matter to himself.” “But he is homicidal too—or at least it’s doubtful. I want to know a little more about that, thank you!” “What is the man’s name?” “Mandell-Essington.” “Sounds aristocratic. He might come in useful afterwards, when he’s cured.” Welsh spoke with an air of reflection, which might have been entirely disinterested. “He’d probably commit suicide first,” said Twiddel, “and of course I’d get all the blame.” “Or homicide,” replied Welsh, “When _he_ would.” “No, he wouldn’t—that’s the worst of it; I’d be blamed for having my own throat cut.” “Twiddel,” said his friend, deliberately, “it seems to me you’re a fool.” “I’m at least alive,” cried Twiddel, warming with sympathy for himself, “which I probably wouldn’t be for long in Mr Essington’s company.” “I don’t blame your nerves, dear boy,” said Welsh, with a smile that showed all his teeth, “only your head. Here are £500 going a-begging. There must be some way——” He paused, deep in reflection. “How would it do,” he remarked in a minute, “if _I_ were to go in your place?” Twiddel laughed and shook his head. “Couldn’t be managed?” “Couldn’t possibly, I’m afraid.” “No,” said Welsh. “I foresee difficulties.” He fished a pipe out of his pocket, filled and lit it, and leaned back in his chair gazing at the ceiling. “Twiddel, my boy,” he said at length, “will you give me a percentage of the fee if I think of a safe dodge for getting the money and preserving your throat?” Twiddel laughed. “Rather!” he said. “I am perfectly serious,” replied Welsh, keenly. “I’m certain the thing is quite possible.” He half closed his eyes and ruminated in silence. The doctor watched him—fascinated, afraid. Somehow or other he felt that he was already a kind of Guy Fawkes. There was something so unlawful in Welsh’s expression. They sat there without speaking for about ten minutes, and then all of a sudden Welsh sprang up with a shout of laughter, slapping first his own leg and then the doctor’s back. “By Gad, I’ve got it!” he cried. “I have it!” And he had; hence this tale. PART I. CHAPTER I.