“That, sir, is quite an invitation,” said Garrick, removing one by one the knives sticking Percival to the target. “You may have surmised that I was once an illusionist of some fame. Some called me the Great Lombardi, but notoriety bestowed upon me another name.”

Garrick paused and Percival could not take it. “What name? In God’s name, stop toying with me.”

Garrick whipped a covering sheet from a coffin-shaped box stage left. “I was known as the Red Glove.”

Percival’s eyes rolled back and he fainted where he stood, held aloft only by a cleaver and a stiletto.

“You’ve heard the legend, I see,” said Garrick, plucking out the remaining blades.

Percival woke in the box, strapped down tight, bare feet poking from the end.

Garrick leaned over him, dressed now in full evening wear, with silken hat and dinner gloves, one white, one red.

“This is my most famous illusion,” he said. “A somewhat irksome truth, as it is the only illusion that ever went fatally awry.”

“Awry?” said Percival, his head fuzzy. “Does that mean wrong, sir?”

“Oh, it does. And do you know what fatally means?”

Percival searched his vocabulary, which consisted of little more than two hundred words, most of them food related. “Dead, sir—is it that someone was killed?”

“You are more educated than you look, Mr....?”

“Percival, guv’nor.”

“Percival. A good strong Welsh name.”

“Welsh, yes. Perhaps you have Welsh kin and will spare me?”

Garrick ignored the question, drawing from behind his back with quite a flourish a large, wooden-handled, square blade.

“This is the key to the illusion, Percival: the blade. The audience assumes it is a fakement, but I assure you it is of the finest steel and will cut through flesh and bone with barely a stutter.”

And, with great panache and dexterity, Garrick tossed the blade into the air, caught it, then rammed the tempered steel square into the leg slot, appearing to sever Percival’s feet from his legs.

“Mercy!” screamed Percival. “Kill me and be done. This is torture, sir. Pure torture.”

Garrick clicked his fingers and from somewhere overhead came the sound of an orchestra.

“You must indulge me, Monsieur Percival. I so rarely have need of the old togs.”

Percival’s face seemed to swell with fear. “I ain’t no blower. The judges could never make old Percival blab, and neither will you.”

“Why so hysterical, Percival?” asked Garrick innocently. “I have done you no harm. Look.”

Percival saw that there was a large gilt-edged mirror suspended above the proscenium arch. He commanded his toes to wiggle and was mightily relieved to see them do it in the looking glass.

“But the light is so bad in here, Mr. Percival. I should afford you a closer spy.”

And with that Garrick separated the lower box from the main body, and Percival screamed as his feet rolled away from him, toes wiggling furiously.