He had his back to Clinton as he filled the glasses, and with a lightning motion he dropped a pellet into Clinton’s which fizzled like a tiny comet down through the bubbles and was gone. “Here’s to many more pleasant evenings,” said Clinton. “You’re a brave man, Bellamy,” he exclaimed, putting the glass to his lips. “For what you have seen might well appal the devil!” “I’m not afraid because I trust you,” replied Bellamy. “By Eblis, this is a strong one,” said Clinton, peering into his glass. “Same as usual,” said Bellamy, laughing. “Tell me something. A man I knew who’d been many years in the East told me about some race out there who cut out paper patterns and paint them and send them to their enemies. Have you ever heard of anything of the sort?” Clinton dropped his glass on the table sharply. He did not answer for a moment, but shifted uneasily in his chair. “Who was this friend of yours?” he asked, in a voice already slightly thick. “A chap called Bond,” said Bellamy. “Yes, I’ve heard of that charming practice. In fact, I can cut them myself.” “Really, how’s it done? I should be fascinated to see it.” Clinton’s eyes blinked and his head nodded. “I’ll show you one,” he said, “but it’s dangerous and you must be very careful. Go to the bottom drawer of that bureau and bring me the piece of straw paper you’ll find there. And there are some scissors on the writing table and two crayons in the tray.” Bellamy brought them to him. “Now,” said Clinton, “this thing, as I say, is dangerous. If I wasn’t drunk I wouldn’t do it. And why am I drunk?” He leaned back in his chair and put his hand over his eyes. And then he sat up and, taking the scissors, began running them with extreme dexterity round the paper. And then he made some marks with the coloured pencils. The final result of these actions was not unfamiliar in appearance to Bellamy. “There you are,” said Clinton. “That, my dear Bellamy, is potentially the most deadly little piece of paper in the world. Would you please take it to the fireplace and burn it to ashes?” Bellamy burnt a piece of paper to ashes. Clinton’s head had dropped into his hands. “Another drink?” asked Bellamy. “My God, no,” said Clinton, yawning and reeling in his chair. And then his head went down again. Bellamy went up to him and shook him. His right hand hovered a second over Clinton’s coat pocket. “Wake up,” he said, “I want to know what would make that piece of paper actually deadly?” Clinton looked up blearily at him and then rallied slightly. “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” “Yes,” said Bellamy. “Tell me.” “Just repeating six words,” said Clinton, “but I shall not repeat them.” Suddenly his eyes became intent and fixed on a corner of the room. “What’s that?” he asked sharply. “There! there! there! in the corner.” Bellamy felt again the presence of a power. The air of the room seemed rent and sparking.