"Tigerskin is twenty years old, nearly blind, and can hardly hobble a step. My dear Wetherell, that horse has won me no end of money on the track! He's been worth his weight in gold! I hate to think of him as dead." He laid a cold hand upon the doctor's. "How about chloroform? It's safe, painless——"
"It's painless enough," interrupted the physician, "but it's not always sure."
Wilkinson's hand trembled.
"It kills men sure enough, doesn't it?"
Wetherell shook his head.
"Not sure enough," he answered. "They come out of it when one least expects it."
"Strychnine, then, or prussic acid?" suggested Wilkinson.
Again Wetherell shook his head.
"I wouldn't give either of them to my dearest enemy," he opined. "My advice is, not...." He drew forth a tiny cigarette and lighted it. "My suggestion, Mr. Wilkinson—of course I'm not a horse doctor, and there's no charge for this—my method, rather, would be powder and shot—the old-fashioned way...."
"Pistol?"