"But you must tell me where, Mr. Hume," he said, in a pleasant but determined voice.
"Ah, but you must first tell me what you intend to do with me, Sir Charles."
He shrugged his shoulders. "What can I do but kill you?" he replied. "I dare not let you go, and you are too infernally adroit to keep a prisoner! Come, Hume, I'll make a bargain with you. Give me the jewels, and I'll promise you your choice of deaths."
"Done with you!" I cried. "I choose old age!"
"Senility is not for you, my friend; I spoke of sudden deaths."
"Then we can't trade, Sir Charles!"
"Let me remind you that I am a surgeon, Hume. Some deaths are extraordinarily painful. You, who are no anatomist, I think, would be surprised to learn how tenaciously the soul may cling to its clay casket, and how deep are the wells of agony that it will often plumb before it can be prevailed upon to seek another sphere of usefulness. Now I am not a cruel man, and I should not like to see you suffer too protractedly. Let me persuade you not to force my hand."
"Give me a night to think it over," I replied.
"Why delay? No, Hume, I cannot grant your wish in any case. I have to perform a difficult operation to-morrow, and if my mind were occupied with doubts, I might not do my patient justice. If I left you here alive I should be uneasy, my knife might slip—a thousand accidents might happen. Improbable as it seems, you might escape."
"You have determined then to murder me tonight?" I gasped.