"They're all right, I suppose, but they seemed so—funny."

"'Funny Stories I Have Read', by Stephen Persimmons," his father gibed. "They weren't stories, Stephen. They were scientific examples."

"But they were all about torture," the other answered. "There was a dreadful one about—oh, horrible! I don't believe it would sell."

"It will sell right enough," his father said. "You're not a scientist, Stephen."

"And the diagrams and all that," his son went on. "It'd cost a great deal to produce."

"Well, you shall do as you like," Persimmons answered. "But, if you don't produce it by Christmas, I'll print it privately. That will cost a lot more money, Stephen. And anything else I write. If there are many more it'll make a nasty hole in my accounts. And there won't be any sale then, because I shall give them away. And burn what are over. Make up your mind over the week-end. I'll come down next week to hear what you decide. All a gamble, Stephen, and you don't like to bet except on a certainty, do you? You know, if I could afford it, I should enjoy ruining you, Stephen. But that, Stephen—"

"For God's sake, don't keep on calling me Stephen like that," the wretched publisher said. "I believe you like worrying me."

"But that," his father went on placidly, "wasn't the only reason I came to see you to-day. I wanted to kill a man, and your place seemed to me as good as any and better than most. So it was, it seems."

Stephen Persimmons stared at the large, heavy body opposite lying back in its chair, and said, "You're worrying me...aren't you?"

"I may be," the other said, "but facts, I've noticed, do worry you, Stephen. They worried your mother into that lunatic asylum. A dreadful tragedy, Stephen—to be cut off from one's wife like that. I hope nothing of the sort will ever happen to you. Here am I comparatively young—and I should like another child, Stephen. Yes, Stephen, I should like another child. There'd be someone else to leave the money to; someone else with an interest in the business. And I should know better what to do. Now, when you were born, Stephen—"

"Oh, God Almighty," his son cried, "don't talk to me like that. What do you mean—you wanted to kill a man?"

"Mean?" the father asked. "Why, that. I hadn't thought of it till the day before, really—yesterday, so it was; when Sir Giles Tumulty told me Rackstraw was coming to see him—and then it only just crossed my mind.