It was several moments before Wingrave answered him.  He was smoking a cigar in a mechanical sort of way, but he obviously derived no pleasure from it.  Yet Aynesworth noticed that some instinct had led him to choose the finest brand.

“Perhaps,” he said, letting his eyes rest coldly upon his questioner, “if I told you all that was in my mind you would waive your month’s salary and get back to your journalism!”

Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders.

“Why should you suppose that?” he asked.  “I am not a moralist myself, nor am I the keeper of your conscience.  I don’t think that you could frighten me off just yet.”

“Nevertheless,” Wingrave admitted, “there are times when I fear that we shall not get on together.  I begin to suspect that you have a conscience.”

“You are the first,” Aynesworth assured him, “who has ever flattered me to that extent.”

“It may be elastic, of course,” Wingrave continued, “but I suspect its existence.  I warn you that association with me will try it hard.”

“I accept the challenge,” Aynesworth answered lightly.

“You are rasher than you imagine,” Wingrave declared.  “For instance, I have admitted to you, have I not, that I am interested in my fellow creatures, that I want to mix with them and watch them at their daily lives.  Let me assure you that that interest is not a benevolent one.”

“I never fancied that you were a budding philanthropist,” Aynesworth remarked, lighting a fresh cigarette.

“I find myself,” Wingrave continued thoughtfully, “in a somewhat unique position.  I am one of the ordinary human beings with whom the world is peopled, but I am not conscious of any of the usual weaknesses of sentiment or morality.  For instance, if that gentleman with the red face, who has obviously eaten and drunk too much, were to have an apoplectic fit at the moment, and die in his chair, it would not shock or distress me in the least.  On the contrary, I should be disposed to welcome his removal from a world which he obviously does nothing to adorn.”

Aynesworth glanced at the person in question.  He was a theatrical agent and financier of stock companies, whom he knew very well by sight.

“I suppose,” Wingrave continued, “that I was born with the usual moral sentiments, and the usual feelings of kinship towards my fellow creatures.  Circumstances, however, have wholly destroyed them.  To me, men have become the puppets and women the dancing dolls of life.  My interest in them, if it exists at all, is malevolent.  I should like to see them all suffer exactly as I have suffered.  It would interest me exceedingly.”

Still Aynesworth remained silent.  He was anxious to hear all that was in the other’s mind, and he feared lest any interruption might divert him.

“There are men in the world,” Wingrave continued, “called philanthropists, amiable, obese creatures as a rule, whose professed aim in life it is to do as much good as possible.  I take my stand upon the other pole.  It is my desire to encourage and to work as much evil as possible.  I wish to bring all the suffering I can upon those who come within the sphere of my influence.”