George smiled tightly. "And you see the dead in Hell, the fire and
brimstone, and you hear their cries of anguish and it's quite pleasant."
"Then why don't you go with the Devil and be done with it?"
"But I am going to go, Henry."
"Then go!"
"But I must do something first. It's a sort of qualification."
"Yes?"
"I must kill someone."
"But that's most naughty, old boy, isn't it?"
"Not when you have a good reason."
* * * * *
Henry held up the decanter and looked at the small amount of wine that
was left. He shook his head sadly. "But who's going to be your victim?"
"You," answered George.
"Me?" said Henry, smiling.
"Yes, you."
"Are you mad?"
"No."
Henry stopped smiling and his face grew a trifle pale. He suddenly had
the sickening feeling that George wasn't kidding him any more. "But why
me?"
George pulled a small revolver from his breast pocket. "I have it from
what I believe to be a thoroughly reliable source that while I was out
of town last week you were out with my wife."