As he spoke he took from his breast pocket the mummy hand poor Weldon had given me. I could not suppress an exclamation. He had spoken truly then. Belleville tossed the hand upon a table. "I was rather glad to get it back," he said. "Not that it really mattered; but I wondered who had found it. Did Weldon still cling to it after he was dead?"
"You scoundrel!" I cried. "It was you—really then? You pushed him over the platform?"
He laughed. "In person, no, but by direction, yes." Then he became serious. "But let us avoid personalities, if you please. We each possess an ugly temper, I believe; and mine is sometimes uncontrollable. Do you agree?"
"Proceed!" said I.
He bowed ironically. "There is but little more to tell you now. You know almost all you need to know, and enough, I feel sure, to enable you to anticipate your fate."
"You intend to murder me, I suppose?"
"Exactly. But it depends on yourself whether you shall have a painless death or no. If you will do what I require you shall have the choice between aconite and morphia. If you refuse, well,"—he pursed up his lips—"you'll live longer, Pinsent; yes, you'll live longer—but frankly, old chap, you won't like it. I hate you, you know, and I am a surgeon, and you are there and I am here; I repeat, I hate you. And I am not only a surgeon, I am a skilful surgeon. I am, besides, a vivisectionist. That is one of my hobbies. And I'll keep you alive as long as possible. For let me yet again assure you I hate—you—hate you, hate you!"
There was no doubt of it. He hated me. The emotion was infectious. I hated him. I had before; but I now realised how much. After one long glance into his gloating eyes I lowered mine and asked in a voice I strove to render civil: "What is it you want me to do for you?"
"I want you to play the part of a friendly disembodied ghostly match-maker."