his game. He had brought full-cocked a case of an Englishman, his wife and two bearded friars, an anecdote built from the best grey cells of his brain, rendered ever more perfect through long nights of insomnia. It had been kept in ambush for days awaiting the moment in which everything would contribute towards the greatest possible effect.
It was the last hope of the villain, his last cartridge. If it failed to go off he would decidedly blow out his brains. He saw that it was impossible to manipulate a more ingenious torpedo. Should the aneurism resist the shock, then the aneurism was a bluff, the great artery a fiction, Chernovitz mere twaddle, medical science worthless and Dr. Ioduret an ass and he, Pontes, the dullest, most insipid creature under the sun, therefore unworthy to live.
Pontes meditated thus, alluring the poor victim with the eyes of psychology when the Major met him halfway and winked his left eye at him.
"The time has come," thought the scoundrel and in the most natural way he took up the little bottle of sauce as though casually and began to read the label:
"Perrins, Lea & Perrins. I wonder if this might be a relation of that Lord Perrins, who baffled the two bearded friars?"
Inebriated by the seductions of the fish the Major's eyes lit up coveteously, greedy for a spicy tale:
"Two bearded friars and a Lord! The story must be A-1! Fire away, Chipmunk."
