Godfrey took two or three contemplative puffs, while I sat there staring at him. "Well," Godfrey answered, at last, "now I'm going to romance a little. We will return to your fascinating friend, Armand, as we may as well call him for the present. He is an extraordinary man." "No doubt of it," I agreed. "I can only repeat what I have said before--in my opinion, he is the greatest criminal of modern times." "If he is a criminal at all, he is undoubtedly a great one," I conceded. "But it is hard for me to believe that he is a criminal. He's the most cultured man I ever met." "Of course he is. That's why he's so dangerous. An ignorant criminal is never dangerous--it's the ignorant criminals who fill the prisons. But look out for the educated, accomplished ones. It takes brains to be a great criminal, Lester, and brains of a high order." "But why should a man with brains be a criminal?" I queried. "If he can earn an honest living, why should he be dishonest?" "In the first place, most criminals are criminals from choice, not from necessity; and with a cultured man the incentive is usually the excitement of it. Have you ever thought what an exciting game it is, Lester, to defy society, to break the law, to know that the odds against you are a thousand to one, and yet to come out triumphant? And then, I suppose, every great criminal is a little insane." "No doubt of it," I agreed. "Just as every absolutely honest man is a little insane," went on Godfrey quickly. "Just as every great reformer and enthusiast is a little insane. The sane men are the average ones, who are fairly honest and yet tell white lies on occasion, who succumb to temptation now and then; who temporise and compromise, and try to lead a comfortable and quiet life. I repeat, Lester, that this fellow is a great criminal, and that he finds life infinitely more engrossing than either you or I. I hope I shall meet him some time--not in a little skirmish like this, but in an out-and-out battle. Of course I'd be routed, horse, foot and dragoons--but it certainly would be interesting!" and he looked at me, his eyes glowing. "It certainly would!" I agreed. "Go ahead with your romance." "Here it is. This M. Armand is a great criminal, and has, of course, various followers, upon whom he must rely for the performance of certain details, since he can be in but one place at a time. Abject and absolute obedience is necessary to his success, and he compels obedience in the only way in which it can be compelled among criminals--by fear. For disobedience, there is but one punishment --death. And the manner of the death is so certain and so mysterious as to be almost supernatural. For deserters and traitors are found to have died, inevitably and invariably, from the effects of an insignificant wound on the right hand, just above the knuckles." I was listening intently now, as you may well believe, for I began to see whither the romance was tending.