“Mean it? Of course I mean it. I’ve done all kinds of rotten things in my life, but I’ve never broken my word. By George! I haven’t. If Quong Ho dies, the world will be the poorer, not only by a loyal soul, but by one of the most powerful mathematical intellects it has ever seen. And it’s I”—he thumped his chest—“I, who have robbed the world of him. And it’s I who must pay the penalty.” “Pardon my impertinence,” said Dr. Rewsby, drawing on his motoring gloves, as a sign of ending the interview; “but have you generally conducted your life on these extravagant principles?” “I don’t quite understand——” replied Baltazar, stiffening. “If Mr. Quong Ho dies—and I’m glad to say the probability is against his doing so—but if he does, you vow, as an act of penance, that you’ll reduce yourself to a state of poverty and walk out into the world without one penny. Is that right?” “Perfectly,” said Baltazar. “Well, as a medical man, with a hobby, a special interest in—let us say—psychology, I’ve been indiscreet enough to wonder whether this is the first time you’ve made such a Quixotic vow. In fact, now I come to think of it, you made a similar one within two minutes of my first meeting you.” Baltazar met his eyes. “In fact, you want to know whether I’m not a bit mad.” “Not at all,” laughed the doctor. “But I have a shrewd suspicion that the folly you bewail—the eccentric hermit life on the moor—was the result of some such rashly taken obligation.” “Suppose it was,” said Baltazar; “what then?” “I should say you were cultivating a very bad habit, and I should advise you to give it up.”