write some more letters for us. They'll be more truthful than our correspondents are accustomed to get.”
"Whom are you going to write to?”
"I’m going to write to that man who knocked you down with his motor bicycle, and admit that it was quite your—our fault. It was, you know. You're only trying to blackmail him into paying damages to keep out of court. If you hadn't run into the road suddenly——”
“You'll do no such thing! He’s good for fifty dollars. I’m going to buy my wife a fur coat with it.”
“Our wife wouldn't wear a fur coat got so dishonestly.”
“This is where this stops,” Panton said desperately, snatching up a heavy stick. “You're going out of my house before my wife comes home, if I have to beat you to a pulp to make you.”
“Our house, and our wife.”
Panton hit him on the head with the stick, savagely, though, it must be remembered, he had only half his normal strength. He expected to feel the blow himself, and he did. He reeled with the pain of it, and sank into a chair, his head splitting. He looked to see what he had done. The other was stretched on the floor, very ghastly in appearance.
“Great heavens!” said Panton, “I’ve got a corpse to explain.”
He had an odd sensation, also, as though he were choking and bursting. A moment later he tore off his collar, which was strangling him, The next thing he did was to get out of his clothes while he could. All the time he watched the body on the floor, though not very closely. When he had nothing on but his shirt he knelt down beside the corpse.
That is, he would have done if there had been one to kneel beside. There was not. There was only a heap of garments. Mr. Panton looked at himself, felt himself, and went upstairs.
He came down again, clad in one of his old suits, and it fitted him. He looked at the diminutive clothing on the floor, wondered how he would explain it to his wife, decided he would not, picked it up, found his spade, went into the garden, dug a hole with it—a deep one—carefully shaped not like a grave, and buried the two diminutive suits, with the stock of tiny collars.
Now, there is one thing to be remembered: the doctor and the doctor’s servant, as well as several of the tradesmen, saw him when he was half the size he attained on growing up, and is again now. That is all I know.
The Twisted Tapers
From the Russian of Larrovitch
THE tapers cast their shadows everywhere,
Across her breast, her eyes, her mouth, her hair.
We are alone; each taper bends and drips
While I pour kisses on her still, soft lips.
The shadows flicker on the walls and floor,
Faint sounds of voices reach me past the door.
The tapers bend and drip, the voices go,
The hours pass deliberate and slow.
She was a lady of a high-born race . . .
The tapers bend and drip . . . I kiss her face,
Ah! now to kneel within this heavy gloom.
Here buried living in miladi’s tomb.
