"You're a man of evil passions, Charlie--of hot and sudden passions," he said. "Twenty years ago you killed Gavin Hockley--struck him down, as you might have struck any noxious beast in your way. Your blood was up, Charlie"--he had risen excitedly to his feet, and was leaning across the table towards me, with his hands gripping the edges, and his eyeballs almost starting from their sockets--"you were like a man rushing into battle, caring nothing for what you did. That was fine--that was noble; but afterwards, Charlie--afterwards?" "I don't understand you," I said feebly. "When the thing was done; when you crept out into the streets, knowing what you'd left behind you. Tell me, Charlie--tell me; did it creep down the stairs in your wake--bloody and horrible; did you hear its feet pattering on the stones in quiet streets; did you look over your shoulder, and see its glazing eyes staring at you--its mouth with the drooping jaw striving to scream 'Murder!' after you? Tell me, Charlie." "I forget," I replied. "After all--what does it matter now?" "But suppose, Charlie--only suppose," he went on, in that same hoarse whisper--"imagine for a moment that you set out to do it again?" I sprang to my feet, and confronted him. "What madman's talk is this?" I demanded, with a glance at the door. "What are you talking about?" "Suppose, Charlie," he went on, paying no heed to my excitement--"suppose that this time you set out--not in the heat of passion--not because the man had injured you--but to do it in cold blood! Suppose you crept up his stair--and listened at his door--and stole in upon him----" I clapped my hand suddenly over his lips. "Silence!" I cried--"you don't know what you're talking about. I've forgotten all I did; it's twenty long years ago. Don't remind me of it." For I thought in that way I might divert his thoughts into another channel; I was firmly persuaded that in some amazing fashion he had guessed what I was about to do, and was endeavouring to screw the truth of it out of me. He had dropped back into his chair, and was looking at me cunningly between half-closed lids. I had determined by that time that he should not stop me; I was certain of that, even while I realized that the time must surely come when he would denounce me, and cry out that I had done this thing. The thought of that did not stay me in the least; I meant to go on. But the natural desire to shield myself, if possible--the sheer human instinct of self-preservation--told me that I must if possible throw him off the scent. I began to talk to him with what ease I might. "Come, Fanshawe--it's not for you and me to talk of murder," I said. "Why should I do again what I have done once already? What reason would there be in it?"