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‘But we like being comfortable,’ I said.

‘I know it. It’s very characteristic. But ain’t it a little, just a little, lacking in adaptability an’ imagination?’

‘They haven’t any need for adaptability,’ Madam Burton struck in. ‘They haven’t any Ellis Island standards to live up to.’

‘But we can assimilate,’ the Buffalo woman charged on.

‘Now you have done it!’ I whispered to the old lady as the blessed word ‘assimilation’ woke up all the old arguments for and against.

There was not a dull moment in that dinner for me–nor afterwards when the boys and girls at the piano played the rag-time tunes of their own land, while their elders, inexhaustibly interested, replunged into the discussion of that land’s future, till there was talk of coon-can. When all the company had been set to tables Zigler led me into his book-lined study, where I noticed he kept his golf-clubs, and spoke simply as a child, gravely as a bishop, of the years that were past since our last meeting.

‘That’s about all, I guess–up to date,’ he said when he had unrolled the bright map of his fortunes across three continents. ‘Bein’ rich suits me. So does your country, sir. My own country? You heard what that Detroit man said at dinner. “A Government of the alien, by the alien, for the alien.” Mother’s right, too. Lincoln killed us. From the highest motives–but he killed us. Oh, say, that reminds me. ‘J’ever kill a man from the highest motives?’

‘Not from any motive–as far as I remember.’

‘Well, I have. It don’t weigh on my mind any, but it was interesting. Life is interesting for a rich–for any–man in England. Ya-as! Life in England is like settin’ in the front row at the theatre and never knowin’ when the whole blame drama won’t spill itself into your lap. I didn’t always know that. I lie abed now, and I blush to think of some of the breaks I made in South Africa. About the British. Not your official method of doin’ business. But the Spirit. I was ‘way, ‘way off on the Spirit. Are you acquainted with any other country where you’d have to kill a man or two to get at the National Spirit?’

‘Well,’ I answered, ‘next to marrying one of its women, killing one of its men makes for pretty close intimacy with any country. I take it you killed a British citizen.’

‘Why, no. Our syndicate confined its operations to aliens–dam-fool aliens…. ‘J’ever know an English lord called Lundie[5]? Looks like a frame-food and soap advertisement. I imagine he was in your Supreme Court before he came into his lordship.’

[Footnote 5: ‘The Puzzler’: Actions and Reactions.]

‘He is a lawyer–what we call a Law Lord–a Judge of Appeal–not a real hereditary lord.’

‘That’s as much beyond me as this!’ Zigler slapped a fat Debrett on the table. ‘But I presoom this unreal Law Lord Lundie is kind o’ real in his decisions? I judged so. And–one more question. ‘Ever meet a man called Walen?’

‘D’you mean Burton-Walen, the editor of–?’ I mentioned the journal.

‘That’s him. ‘Looks like a tough, talks like a Maxim, and trains with kings.’

‘He does,’ I said. ‘Burton-Walen knows all the crowned heads of Europe intimately. It’s his hobby.’

‘Well, there’s the whole outfit for you–exceptin’ my Lord Marshalton, ne Mankeltow, an’ me. All active murderers–specially the Law Lord–or accessories after the fact. And what do they hand you out for that, in this country?’

‘Twenty years, I believe,’ was my reply.

He reflected a moment.

‘No-o-o,’ he said, and followed it with a smoke-ring. ‘Twenty months at the Cape is my limit. Say, murder ain’t the soul-shatterin’ event those nature-fakers in the magazines make out. It develops naturally like any other proposition…. Say, ‘j’ever play this golf game? It’s come up in the States from Maine to California, an’ we’re prodoocin’ all the champions in sight. Not a business man’s play, but interestin’. I’ve got a golf-links in the park here that they tell me is the finest inland course ever. I had to pay extra for that when I hired the ranche–last year. It was just before I signed the papers that our murder eventuated. My Lord Marshalton he asked me down for the week-end to fix up something or other–about Peters and the linen, I think ’twas. Mrs. Zigler took a holt of the proposition. She understood Peters from the word “go.” There wasn’t any house-party; only fifteen or twenty folk. A full house is thirty-two, Tommy tells me. ‘Guess we must be near on that to-night. In the smoking-room here, my Lord Marshalton–Mankeltow that was–introduces me to this Walen man with the nose. He’d been in the War too, from start to finish. He knew all the columns and generals that I’d battled with in the days of my Zigler gun. We kinder fell into each other’s arms an’ let the harsh world go by for a while.