"But the genial art of assassination--there's a business that requires a
calculating hand, my dear Monsieur Chauvenet!"
Chauvenet's hand went again to his lip.
"To be sure!" he ejaculated with zest.
"But alone--alone one can do little. For larger operations one
requires--I should say--courageous associates. Now in my affairs--would
you believe me?--I am obliged to manage quite alone."
"How melancholy!" exclaimed Chauvenet.
"It is indeed very sad!" and Armitage sighed, tossed his cigarette into
the smoldering grate and bade Chauvenet a ceremonious good night.
"Ah, we shall meet again, I dare say!"
"The thought does credit to a generous nature!" responded Armitage, and
passed out into the house.
CHAPTER IX
"THIS IS AMERICA, ME. ARMITAGE"
Lo! as I came to the crest of the hill, the sun on the heights had
arisen,
The dew on the grass was shining, and white was the mist on the vale;
Like a lark on the wing of the dawn I sang; like a guiltless one freed
from his prison,
As backward I gazed through the valley, and saw no one on my trail.
--L.
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