the thing as a
joke, whatever it was, for I dreaded to hear.

But Stagers was fate. Stagers was inevitable. "Won't do, doc--not even
money wouldn't get you off."

"No?" said I, interrogatively, and as coolly as I could, contriving at
the same time to move toward the window. It was summer, the sashes were
up, the shutters half drawn in, and a policeman whom I knew was lounging
opposite, as I had noticed when I entered. I would give Stagers a scare,
charge him with theft--anything but get mixed up with his kind again. It
was the folly of a moment and I should have paid dear for it.

He must have understood me, the scoundrel, for in an instant I felt a
cold ring of steel against my ear, and a tiger clutch on my cravat.
"Sit down," he said. "What a fool you are! Guess you forgot that there
coroner's business and the rest." Needless to say that I obeyed. "Best
not try that again," continued my guest. "Wait a moment"; and rising, he
closed the window.

There was no resource left but to listen; and what followed I shall
condense rather than relate it in the language employed by Mr. Stagers.

It appeared that my other acquaintance Mr. File had been guilty of a
cold-blooded and long-premeditated murder, for which he had been tried
and convicted. He now lay in jail awaiting his execution, which was to
take place at Carsonville, Ohio. It seemed that with Stagers and
others he had formed a band of expert counterfeiters in the West. Their
business lay in the manufacture of South American currencies. File had
thus acquired a fortune so considerable that I was amazed at his having
allowed his passion to seduce him into unprofitable crime. In his agony
he unfortunately thought of me, and had bribed Stagers largely in order
that he might be induced to find me. When the narration had reached
this stage, and I had been made fully to understand that I was now and
hereafter under the sharp eye of Stagers and his friends, that, in a
word, escape was out of the question, I turned on my tormentor.

"What does all this mean?" I said. "What does File expect me to do?"

"Don't believe he exactly knows," said Stagers. "Something or other to
get him clear of hemp."

"But what stuff!" I replied. "How can I help him? What possible
influence could I exert?"

"Can't say," answered Stagers, imperturbably. "File has a notion you're
'most cunning enough for anything. Best try something, doc."

"And what if I won't do it?" said I. "What does it