"No reason--no reason at all, Charlie," he said, plucking at his lips with his long fingers, and watching me. "I don't know what put the idea into my mind to-night--I don't know what made me think of it. Only I would give something to know just what a man feels, when he creeps away, and leaves behind him that dead thing that was but a moment before alive and strong. It would be something to know what one feels like then. And the weapon, Charlie--what of the weapon?" I remembered then that I had seen that day in a marine-store dealer's, not a hundred yards from the place where now we talked, the weapon I meant to serve my purpose. It was a strong sailor's knife in a leather sheath--a powerful thing, with a hilt well worn by hands that had grasped it many times; I had stood outside the shop, and had looked at my own hand, and had felt how perfectly it would fit round the handle. I stared at him now as he spoke, and wondered if by any chance he had seen me looking in at that window, and had read my thoughts. "You know the weapon I used," I said, in a low voice. "It was an old sword." "I know, Charlie--I know," he said, nodding. "But if you did it again--if you wanted to do it more quickly and more cleanly--what then? A knife's a good weapon; what about a knife, Charlie?" I felt sick and faint; I got up, and went to the window, and threw it open. It was a fine night--a night of stars and of peace, even with London throbbing in the streets down below me. I thought of the child who had lain asleep--of the mother who watched over her; I thought of the man who was plotting against that little Barbara, and my heart hardened. Though a hundred Fanshawes stood in the way, I meant that this thing should be done, and that the man should die. I had bungled it somehow, so that Fanshawe knew; I must pay the penalty of that afterwards. One thought was in my mind, and one only: he should not stop me. "Have you seen the boy--young Arnold Millard?" I asked, more for the sake of saying something than in the hope of gaining information. "I saw him to-day," replied Fanshawe slowly: "still hanging about that place. I wonder what would happen if by chance he found out where Olivant is going?" "I'm afraid we know what would happen," I replied. "What's the use of talking about it?" It seemed impossible for him to get away from that subject; he came back to it again and again. I remember that he crossed the room, and came and stood near to me, looking down into the street, and speaking in a whisper. "If a man struck down another like that--for a fine noble reason, Charlie--would that be wrong? I mean, would it be so vile as it might be if a man did it for any worse motive? If he did it--and escaped; for how long would it haunt him afterwards? You remember, Charlie; for how long did you think about it--and remember it? Did the blood-stained thing come to you in dreams--mock at you, and haunt you. One would like to know that."