“I see you begin to understand,” he said. “In fact, you are right, that is what I keep it for,” he went on airily, inhaling, despite the recent inflammation of the lungs, a mass of smoke and breathing it slowly out again. “I keep it in readiness for the day when I can’t stand this farce any longer, and do myself the honour to bid you a respectful adieu. It is all very simple. I’ve given the matter some study, and I know precisely how to do it.” Another screech at the word. “I eliminate the region of the heart, the aim is not very convenient there. I prefer to annihilate my consciousness at its very centre by introducing my charming little foreign body direct into this interesting organ.”⁠—Herr Albin indicated with his index finger a spot on his close-cropped blond pate. “You aim here”⁠—he drew the nickel-plated revolver out of his pocket once more and tapped with the barrel against his skull⁠—“just here, above the artery; even without a mirror the thing is simple⁠—”