“Why not?” Mr. Elver repeated gloomily and leaned back again in his chair. “Because that blasted old hag had the capital tied up. It can’t be touched.” “Perhaps she lacked faith in the Trade Cycle,” Mr. Cardan suggested. “God rot her!” said the other fervently. “And when I think of what I’d do with the money when I’d made really a lot. Science, art....” “Not to mention revenge on your old acquaintances,” said Mr. Cardan, cutting him short. “You’ve worked out the whole programme?” “Everything,” said Mr. Elver. “There’d never have been anything like it. And now this damned fool of an old woman goes and gives the money to her pet moron and makes it impossible for me to touch it.” He ground his teeth with rage and disgust. “But if your sister were to die unmarried,” said Mr. Cardan, “the money, I suppose, would be yours.” The other nodded. “It’s a very hierarchical question, certainly,” said Mr. Cardan. In the vault-like room there was a prolonged silence. Mr. Elver had reached the final stage of intoxication. Almost suddenly he began to feel weak, profoundly weary and rather ill. Anger, hilarity, the sense of satanic power—all had left him. He desired only to go to bed as soon as possible; at the same time he doubted his capacity to get there. He shut his eyes. Mr. Cardan looked at the limp and sodden figure with an expert’s eye, scientifically observing it. It was clear to him that the creature would volunteer no more; that it had come to a state when it could hardly think of anything but the gradually mounting nausea within it. It was time to change tactics. He leaned forward, and tapping his host’s arm launched a direct attack. “So you brought the poor girl here to get rid of her,” he said. Mr. Elver opened his eyes and flashed at his tormentor a hunted and terrified look. His face became very pale. He turned away. “No, no, not that.” His voice had sunk to an unsteady whisper. “Not that?” Mr. Cardan echoed scornfully. “But it’s obvious. And you’ve as good as been telling me so for the last half hour.” Mr. Elver could only go on whispering: “No.” Mr. Cardan ignored the denial. “How did you propose to do it?” he asked. “It’s always risky, whatever way you choose, and I shouldn’t put you down as being particularly courageous. How, how?” The other shook his head. Mr. Cardan insisted, ruthlessly. “Rat’s bane?” he queried. “Steel?—no, you wouldn’t have the guts for that. Or did you mean that she should tumble by accident into one of those convenient ditches?” “No, no. No.” “But I insist on being told,” said Mr. Cardan truculently, and he thumped the table till the reflections of the candles in the brimming glasses quivered and rocked. Mr. Elver put his face in his hands and burst into tears. “You’re a bully,” he sobbed, “a dirty bully, like all the rest.”