Yes, there is there the perfection of the art of murder. Not even a word of direct suggestion. He is always holding back others from violence, refuting with horror suspicions that have not been entertained until he mentions them!

And the same technique is seen in the brilliant third act of John Ferguson — where the "half-witted" Clutie John induces others to kill the man that he himself hates. It is a wonderful piece of psychological suggestion.

Now you must realize this, Hastings. Everyone is a potential murderer — in everyone there arises from time to time the wish to kill — though not the will to kill. How often have you not felt or heard others say: "She made me so furious I felt I could have killed her!" "I could have killed B. for saying so-and-so!" "I was so angry I could have murdered him!" And all those statements are literally true. Your mind at such moments is quite clear. You would like to kill so-and-so. But you do not do it. Your will has to assent to your desire. In young children, the brake is as yet acting imperfectly. I have known a child, annoyed by its kitten, say: "Keep still or I'll hit you on the head and kill you" and actually do so — to be stunned and horrified a moment later when it realizes that the kitten's life will not return —

because, you see, really the child loves that kitten dearly. So then, we are all potential murderers. And the art of X was this: not to suggest the desire, but to break down the normal decent resistance. It was an art perfected by long practice. X knew the exact word, the exact phrase, the intonation even to suggest and to bring cumulative pressure on a weak spot! It could be done. It was done without the victim ever suspecting. It was not hypnotism — hypnotism would not have been successful. It was something more insidious, more deadly. It was a marshalling of the forces of a human being to widen a breach instead of repairing it. It called on the best in a man and set it in alliance with the worst.

You should know, Hastings — for it happened to you ...

So now, perhaps, you begin to see what some of my remarks that annoyed and confused you really meant. When I spoke of a crime to be committed, I was not always referring to the same crime. I told you that I was at Styles for a purpose. I was there, I said, because a crime was going to be committed. You were surprised at my certainty on that point. But I was able to be certain — for the crime, you see, was to be committed by myself...

Yes, my friend, it is odd — and laughable — and terrible! I, who do not approve of murder — I, who value human life — have ended my career by committing murder. Perhaps it is because I have been too self-righteous, too conscious of rectitude —