'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[1]? Looks
