Upsher nodded his head. Dimly he recognized a language with which he
once had been familiar. "I know what you mean," he agreed. "Bind 'em
over to keep the peace. And a good job, too! But who?" he demanded
vaguely. "That's what I say! Who?" From the confusion into which
Everett's appeal to forgotten memories had thrown it, his mind suddenly
emerged. "But what's the use!" he demanded. "Don't you see," he
explained triumphantly, "if those two crazy men were fit to listen to
SENSE, they'd have sense enough not to kill each other!"

Each succeeding evening Everett watched the two potential murderers with
lessening interest. He even made a bet with Upsher, of a bottle of fruit
salt, that the chief of police would be the one to die.

A few nights later a man, groaning beneath his balcony, disturbed his
slumbers. He cursed the man, and turned his pillow to find the cooler
side. But all through the night the groans, though fainter, broke into
his dreams. At intervals some traditions of past conduct tugged at
Everett's sleeve, and bade him rise and play the good Samaritan.
But, indignantly, he repulsed them. Were there not many others within
hearing? Were there not the police? Was it HIS place to bind the wounds
of drunken stokers? The groans were probably a trick, to entice him,
unarmed, into the night. And so, just before the dawn, when the mists
rose, and the groans ceased, Everett, still arguing, sank with a
contented sigh into forgetfulness.

When he woke, there was beneath his window much monkey-like chattering,
and he looked down into the white face and glazed eyes of the
Italian doctor, lying in the gutter and staring up at him. Below his
shoulder-blades a pool of blood shone evilly in the blatant sunlight.