“There is a public which delights in being horrified,” said Pendleton with a grimace.  “The things are put out to get their nickels and dimes.”

“No doubt,” agreed the other.  “And the fact that they are willing to pay their nickels and dimes is, to my way of thinking, a proof of the extraordinary nature of the crime chronicled.”  The speaker dropped the prints upon the floor and lounged back in his big chair.  “There is Plutarch,” he continued; “the account of the assassination of Caesar is not the least interesting thing in his biography of that statesman.  Indeed, I have no doubt but that the chronicler thought Caesar’s taking off the most striking incident in his career; that the Roman public thought so is a matter of history.

“Countless writers have dwelt upon the taking of human life; some of them were rather commercial gentlemen who always gave an ear to the demands of their public, and their screeds were written for the money that they would put in their pockets; but others, and by long odds the greatest, were fascinated by their subjects.  Both Stevenson and Henley were powerfully drawn by deeds of blood.  Did you know they planned a great book which was to contain a complete account of the world’s most remarkable homicides?  I’m sorry they never carried the thing out; for I cannot conceive of two minds more fitted to the task.  They would have dressed every event in the grimmest and most subtle horror; why, the soul would have shuddered at each enormity as shaped and presented by such masters.”

Pendleton regarded his friend with candid distaste.

“You are appalling to-day,” said he.  “If you think it’s the Greek tobacco, let me know.  For I have to mingle with other human beings, and I’d scarcely care to get into your state of mind.”

The strong, white teeth of Ashton-Kirk showed in a quick smile.

“The tobacco was recommended by old Hosko,” he said, “and you’ll find nothing violent in it, no matter what you find in my conversation.”

“What put you into such a frame of mind, anyway?  Something happened?”

But Ashton-Kirk shook his head.

“I don’t know,” said he.  “In fact, I have been strangely idle for the last fortnight.  The most exciting things that have appeared above my personal horizon have been a queer little edition of Albertus-Magnus, struck off in an obscure printing shop in Florence in the early part of the sixteenth century, and a splendid, large paper Poe, to which I fortunately happened to be a subscriber.”

A volume of the Poe and the Albertus-Magnus were lying at hand; Pendleton ignored the dumpy, stained little Latin volume; its strong-smelling leather binding and faded text had no attractions for him.  But he took up the Poe and began idly turning its leaves.