"Well," he fenced.



"Every time we've met for a week," I said, "and we've met pretty

often--you've given me a broad hint or so about that little secret

of mine."



"Well," he said, "now the cat's out of the bag, I'll admit, yes,

it is so. I had it--"



"From Pattison?"



"Indirectly," he said, which I believe was lying, "yes."



"Pattison," I said, "took that stuff at his own risk."



He pursed his mouth and bowed.



"My great-grandmother's recipes," I said, "are queer things to handle.

My father was near making me promise--"



"He didn't?"



"No. But he warned me. He himself used one--once."



"Ah! . . . But do you think--? Suppose--suppose there did happen

to be one--"



"The things are curious documents," I said.



"Even the smell of 'em. . . . No!"



But after going so far Pyecraft was resolved I should go farther.

I was always a little afraid if I tried his patience too much he would

fall on me suddenly and smother me. I own I was weak. But I was

also annoyed with Pyecraft. I had got to that state of feeling

for him that disposed me to say, "Well, TAKE the risk!" The little

affair of Pattison to which I have alluded was a different matter

altogether. What it was doesn't concern us now, but I knew, anyhow,

that the particular recipe I used then was safe. The rest I didn't

know so much about, and, on the whole, I was inclined to doubt

their safety pretty completely.



Yet even if Pyecraft got poisoned--



I must confess the poisoning of Pyecraft struck me as an immense

undertaking.



That evening I took that queer, odd-scented sandalwood box out of

my safe and turned the rustling skins over. The gentleman who wrote



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