You laugh!" As a matter of fact, they had exchanged glances—but the thing had not amounted to a laugh. "Very good! You English are of a different race to us French. The things which, with your coarseness, but prick you, with our delicacy cut us to the heart My God, yes! But that has nothing to do with the advertisement" M. Gerbert waved the paper in the air. "Here is a man who announces that he is tired of his life—that is but a commonplace. He announces that he will dispose of that of which he is tired in exchange for a certain sum. There, I grant you, is a touch of the original. So many people dispose of their lives in exchange for nothing at all! But, my friends, think of the number of persons who are willing to risk, and who do risk their lives for twopence-halfpenny—who will march to certain death for a five-franc piece. This creature"—M. Gerbert rapped his knuckle against the paper—"is possibly some bravo of a fellow who says to himself, 'I will have one good hour, and then, after that—what matters all the rest!' That is so!"
"Won't your police have something to say to such an advertisement?"
"Ah, M. Nash, our police! With our police it is altogether a matter of the digestion! Good fortune!"
M. Gerbert rose. He drained his absinthe to the dregs. With a wave of the hand he walked away. Mr. Kennard drew the paper towards him.
"I've a mind to see this through." Willie Nash looked at him askance. "The advertisement, I mean—and the advertiser too."
"Are you thinking of setting him to perform a deed which shall inevitably result in death?"
