It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. But come, sir. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. I have a weapon—a knife—and if you attempt to open the door, will plunge it to my heart.
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