"Thanks," he simply repeated, "Has anybody seen you enter the house?"
"No, the door was open and I walked right up. Why do you ask?"
"I don't want anybody to be mixed up in this affair, as it only concerns me."
The literary man smiled: "Could any man influence you one way or another? As far as I can make out you are beyond mortal influence."
A pause ensued. Morrison threw the last thing into his trunk. "Well, I am ready. Everything is settled."
"How about your statues?"
"Pshaw!" Morrison shrugged his shoulders. "Nobody was interested in them while I lived. Why should I bother to think what might become of them after my death?"
The author nodded and scowled at the same time. He was not satisfied with the answer. But there were still other things on his mind. He was used to analyze everything to shreds and tatters. "Are you not afraid that you might make a botch out of the whole job?"
Morrison weighed the question in his mind, then shook his head and answered: "No, there is hardly a chance for it now. I have been tuned up to it, trained myself to it, so to speak. The fruit is ripe. It has to fall. It would be awful, though—" he added, with an after-thought. "Do you remember my emerald ring? I had to pawn it, but I kept the poison which was hidden under the stone. I will take that if anything goes wrong."
"Would you object to my company?" asked the tall, lean man, "I mean until all is over. I, myself, am not quite ready yet for any such heroical performances."