Camperdown approached the heavy table where Mr. Armour sat, and throwing his cap on it, pulled toward him one of the haircloth easy-chairs of the room, and said agreeably as he sat down, “Morning, Stanton. Is business progressing?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Armour, a faint smile hovering about his lips.
He had just received news from his Jamaica agent of the profitable sale of some West Indian cargoes, and was feeling almost cheerful in consequence of it—the making of money being the one ray of sunlight in his joyless existence. However, he did not tell Dr. Camperdown this, and the latter went on:
“There’s a point in the science of killing people, Stanton, that I’d like to have you know. When you tackle me, don’t do it with cold steel, or frost and snow and icy atmosphere. If I’m going to be put out of the world, let me have an easy, comfortable going. Something warm and pleasant.”
“I am at a loss to understand your meaning,” said Armour in a cold voice.
“Drowning is a pleasant death,” went on Camperdown inexorably; “or bleeding; cyanide of potassium kills a cat quickly. You can shoot a dog quicker than you can starve him. More agreeable to the dog too.”
“Your jesting is unintelligible to me.”
“I daresay,” replied Camperdown. “Why don’t you try to make ma’m’selle happier, Stanton?”
Armour scanned him silently.
“She’s eating her heart out about something,” said Camperdown with suspicious smoothness. “Those French people are all fire and suppressed passion. You don’t understand them, Stanton.”