“Once more?” I asked. “What does that mean?”
“I always say ‘once more,’” he said. “It’s greedy to ask for too much.”
The very fact that he fenced so ingeniously deepened my suspicion.
“That won’t do,” I said. “Tell me, Roddie.”
He was silent a moment.
“I didn’t intend to,” he said, “for there can be no use in it. But if you insist, as apparently you mean to do, I may as well give in. It’s what you think; ‘once more’ will very likely be the most. But you mustn’t fuss about it; I’m not going to. No proper person fusses about death; that’s a train which we are all sure to catch. It always waits for you.”
I have noticed that when one learns tidings of that sort, one feels, almost immediately, that one has known them a long time. I felt so now.
“Go on,” I said.
“Well, that’s about all there is. I’ve had sentence of death passed upon me, and it will probably be carried out, I’m delighted to say, in the French fashion. In France, you know, they don’t tell you when you are to be executed till a few minutes before. It is likely that I shall have even less than that, so my doctor informs me. A second or two will be all I shall get. Congratulate me, please.”
I thought it over for a moment.