He turned. He looked at this woman who was his foe—his victor.

Slowly he said:

"There is supposed to be honor among thieves. Apparently there is none among libertines."

He took his hat from where it lay amid the confusion of the table. He bowed, first to the woman, then to Schuyler. He was a proud man—a strong man. It hurt him to lose—and the more because the stake had been so great.... He passed across the room, and through the door, closing it behind him.

Upon the woman, still laughing in the delight of her success, Schuyler rounded. There was in his heart, too, a great bitterness—a great hurt. For he, too, realized how near he had been to salvation—and that realization made the present distance seem yet greater than ever before; and God alone knew how great that was.

"I hope you're satisfied," he remarked, dully. "Now even he has gone. You've broken the last link that bound me to the life that was."

Again she laughed, ringingly, merrily.

Then the greatness of his wrath obsessed him.

"Laugh!" he cried, wildly. "Laugh at your fool!—the helpless, spineless, soulless fool who does your bidding even to the depths of hell! Laugh! ... Laugh! ..." Suddenly, his body seemed to wither. He leaned weakly against the back of the great chair.... His head sunk slowly upon his arms....

There came suddenly from the stairway a little, delighted, cry in childish treble.

"Daddy! Daddy, dear!"

Schuyler, head buried, thought at first that it was but within himself that he heard—that it was that other sense—that unknown sense—that had called him.... The cry came again.... Slowly he raised his head, and looked....

A great, cold clutch tore his heart. His veins stiffened. His head reeled. He staggered, back, clutching for support, at the chair. Even this had come to him!

It was she—his daughter—the child of his wife, and of himself—the child that had been his to love when still he had been man.

The little one was scampering down the stairs, tiny feet pattering upon thick carpet. Her eyes were dancing; her lips smiling; there was in her the great, unequivocating, unquestioning gladness of the young.

"Daddy!" she cried, again, all delight. "Daddy, dear!"

He hesitated.... Then swiftly he ran to her, seizing her in eager, thrilling arms, hiding her face against his breast, that she might not see—Yet was it too late.

"Oh, what a beautiful lady, daddy!" cried the little one. "Who is she?"

He gasped. He choked. He could not answer.... The woman stood looking on, smiling—still smiling.

At length he found words:

"How did you come here, little sweetheart?" he asked.

"I runned away," she returned. "I was in the Park, with Mawkins. I left her while she was talking to a p'liceman.... Oh, daddy, dear! When are we coming home? I miss you so much!"

The woman moved forward, eyes upon the kneeling, soul-torn man; and upon the little child that was his.

"Another advocate!" she said. "It has been skilfully planned."

"What does she mean, daddy?" queried the child.

He answered, quickly:

"Nothing, dearie."

The woman stepped forward. He hurriedly drew the child from her.... Again she smiled, a little.... There were some things that she understood, that were of the Known.

The child was speaking:

"And, daddy," she said, "mother dear isn't a bit well. Mawkins and I are dreadfully worried about her."

"What's the matter with mother?" he asked, quickly. "Tell me!"

The child shook her head.

"She cries most all the time," she replied. "And when I ask her what the matter is, she just shakes her head and says, 'Nothing, dearie. Mother's tired.' But people don't cry because they're tired, do they, daddy?"

He did not answer. Head sunk in hands, the bitterness of it all—the awful, ghastly, horror of the things that he had done—was obsessing him body and soul and brain and heart. The fires of the uttermost hell were flaring through his very being.

Then it was that the woman beckoned to the child of the man that belonged to her.

"Come here, dear," she said, voice modulated. The man might not hear yet.

The child hesitated.

"I'd rather not," she replied.

The woman bent forward, swiftly, undulatingly, as a snake strikes. She seized the child, clasping her to her. And once, twice, thrice, she kissed her, on the lips.... The man awoke. He staggered to his feet.... Through the door came Blake. He, too, saw; and while he did not understand all, he understood enough.

Across the room he sprang. He tore the child from the now yielding arms of the woman! Holding tight against him the little one that he loved as his own, he turned savagely upon the man who had once been his friend.

"To think that any human thing could sink so low!" he almost hissed.... And he was gone, taking with him the child he loved.

It is safe to play with a soul just so far—sometimes it is safe to play even farther, when one really knows one's strength.... The woman had possibly overestimated her prowess—and yet possibly she had not—it were hard to tell of one who knows the things that we do not—who does not know the things that we do. There was manhood, and honor, and decency in Schuyler yet—a little, of a sort. He struck her in the face—full upon the vivid, crimson lips—and a little of their crimson seemed to leave its lair. It trickled down upon the dead whiteness of her skin.... But she still smiled. Her white arms went forth languorously. Her lithe, slender, beautiful body undulated. Her eyes were on his.... She still smiled....

Again he struck her.... Still she smiled.... Her eyes looked into his.

He raised his hand to strike again.... The hand did not fall.... Her eyes were on his; and she still smiled.... She gauged her power well. Perhaps, at times, she flattered it, a little—but never much.... She still smiled.... Perhaps, it was that which she desired. It were hard to tell. For, after all....



CHAPTER THIRTY.

AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

Blake, leaving the house, lifted Muriel into the big, French car and got in beside her. Her little mind was in great puzzlement; and of Blake she began to ask the countless questions that flew to her lips. "Why was daddy living there, when mother dear and she were with Aunt Elinor?" "Who was the lady that she had seen, and did he know her?" "Was daddy living there all alone, and when was he coming to live with them, as he used?" and many, many more.

Some of them Blake answered as best he could; others he evaded. His heart ached within him sorely.... Almost he wished that he were a woman; the relief of tears would have meant much.

With childish, wondering question stinging deeper and yet more deep, he watched the stream of traffic swirl past—car and cab, brougham and 'bus. They were on the Avenue—Fifth Avenue, like which there is no other street in our land.

On they went, past great club, past rows of magnificent residences, past towering church and staid old dwelling. They came at length to the Plaza, with its hotels, and glistening statue. The Park lay to the left, a thing of green, with its arching trees. Uniformed nurses were wheeling little perambulators; others were watching active, tousled-headed little charges. Anon there flashed past a group of galloping riders.

At length they turned into a side street. The car stopped before a house of brick and stone, with wrought-iron lattices. Blake got out, lifting the child.

The butler admitted them. Mrs. VanVorst was in, he said, in response to Blake's query; Mrs. Schuyler was out....

It had been some time since Blake had seen Kathryn. She had been very ill, very ill—ill almost unto death. This had followed the receipt of a letter from John Schuyler—a letter which made futile all their efforts to spare her suffering—a letter in which he had been condemned of his own hand. Dr. DeLancey had labored hard, and well. In the end she was saved. But Dr. DeLancey was an old man—a very old man; and, when he had seen that she was saved, he himself had passed away. Possibly it was as well; for he was a lonely old man, you know; and those few whom he loved had brought him much suffering. It was a strange letter, that letter that had wrought so much—a letter utterly unlike the man who wrote it. It was, in part:

"... God himself only knows how I feel. I can scarce believe that it is I who write. And yet it must be I. There is no such thing as redemption— no such thing as hope—no such thing as palliation, or excuse. It is simply an end of me that is not death. Would to God it were. Death would be welcome—even a death of torture refined. There is nothing that I could say that you would understand for nothing that I could say would I myself understand. It is simply the end.... I hope I am insane. Yet I fear that I am not.... I am a ship without a rudder. My will is gone from me; I have no volition of my own—no soul—nothing. All that is left of me is a body, and the power still to suffer, and for the rest, only a great emptiness, and a greater pain."

Kathryn had fainted, when she received that letter. Then fever had come, and with it, delirium. Which was merciful. For weeks she lay closer to death than to life.... Now she was better; and yet far from well. Violet eyes were sad—dull. Brown-gold flesh was pallid. She moved with languor.

For weeks no word of all that meant so much was spoken; it was a topic carefully avoided.

One day Kathryn had said that she must go to see Schuyler. They had tried to dissuade her; without success. This was to have been the day. So Blake himself had gone, eager to bear for her the shock, should there be a shock to be borne; and if not, to render easy her going.

Elinor met him as he entered the drawing room. He set the child down, bidding her go find her nurse; then he turned to Mrs. VanVorst.

"I have seen him," he said, simply.

She looked the query that there was no need for lips to speak.

He shook his head.

"It is impossible," he declared. "Quite impossible. She was there."

"We must dissuade Kathryn from going, then," said Elinor.

He smiled, grimly, sadly.

"It will not be hard, I fear. Muriel was there, too."

And that was why Kathryn Schuyler did not go, then, to John Schuyler.



CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

THAT WHICH MEN SAID.

A winter had come, and gone. It had been a bitter winter, and a cold. For Kathryn Schuyler had it been a bitter winter, indeed. Sick of heart, sick of body, she had stayed in the city, going out not at all, seeing of all her friends only Blake, trying with all her pride, with all her strength, to adjust herself to the new order of things. It had been a weary winter—a winter that dragged along on laggard feet, loitering, waiting.

The love of Muriel, the sympathy of Elinor, the devotion of Blake were in it the only bits of brightness. She felt strange—lost—astray. By day, she was dull, listless. At night sometimes, she slept a little; at others she would bury her face in her tumbled pillow, and her lithe body would heave with the wracking of her sobs; for the entire structure of her life had been ruthlessly torn down by the hand of one man. It seemed to her that from its ruin nothing might ever be erected.

She told this to Blake, one day. Side by side, they had been sitting by the window, gazing out into a sleet-swept street where horses slipped and slid, and hurrying foot-passengers passed with heads buried in collars, or furs.

He had said but little in reply—merely that there are things in this world that we do not know, and that happiness sometimes come whence we least expect it. He did not say these things with any great degree of confidence. In his own life, there had been but little save longing unsatisfied, prayers ungranted. But she took from it comfort—even though there seemed in it so pitifully little from which comfort might be derived. Perhaps it was the way in which he said it; or perhaps it was because it was he who said it.

However, winter at length dragged out its weary life to its weary end. Spring came, and with it the soft green of the new born grass, and the lighter shoots of crocus, and lily, and the buds of the trees. Spring grew; and the stolid phalanx of city homes began to don their summer armor of boards, and blinds and shaded windows.

And then the Larchmont place was opened. John Schuyler had sent to Kathryn the deed of it; the one request that he had made was that she continue to live there—that she take Muriel there.

During all this time no word of him had come to her. Blake had heard. But no word had he said to Kathryn, because of the things that he had heard. A man of the breadth of acquaintance, of the breadth of interests, that was John Schuyler's may not fall to desuetude unwatchful. And Blake heard, at clubs, at theatres, wherever men congregate, of Schuyler, and of the life that was his. And he, as little as they, could explain.

Schuyler was drinking, they told him—drinking hard. The woman? Was she still in New York? Yes; she had been seen at the opera; she had been seen driving in the Mall. A damnable strange case, the whole thing. Grewsome! And, save Blake, they would wash the taste of it all from their mouths with liquor. Devilishly good fellow, Schuyler. Brainy, too. He would have been one of the big men of the country, if it hadn't been for this.

A chance to save him? They shook their heads, and smiled, grimly. You know how it is, yourself. When a man gets into the hands of a woman like that, what can you do? Say anything against her, and you have to fight him. Tell him he's a fool and he tells you to mind your own business. Try to reason with him, then? If the man had any reason left in him, there would be no occasion to reason. It's hard, true. But your hands are tied. It's just, "Good-bye," and a prayer for the next man.... So they reasoned. And could Blake say that they were wrong? ... Could you?



CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

IN THE GARDEN.

Kathryn stood beside the blossom-laden arbor, culling fragrant tender blossoms from the wealth before her. Beside her, Muriel, little skirt upheld, received them.

"Mother, dear," said the child, at length.

"Yes, honey?"

"Does God make roses?"

"Yes, dearie."

"Who made God?"

Her mother smiled. "He made Himself. God makes everything, dearie."

With troubled brows the little one asked:

"Did God sit down when He made His feet?"

Came from the house Elinor. She moved lithely, swiftly, now. The old tan had come back to her cheek; she was no longer an invalid.

"More roses, Kate?" she asked, brightly.

Kathryn nodded.

"Yes," she said. "It seems almost brutal to cut them, doesn't it? But I love them in my room; and they won't grow there."

"Then sleep out here. It's quite the thing, nowadays."

Kathryn smiled a little.

"You're so frightfully lacking in sensibilities, Nell."

"And," returned her practical sister, "a lot more comfortable because I am." She seated herself. "Tom's back," she announced.

A quick little gleam of gladness sprang to the violet eyes.

"Is he?"

Elinor nodded, nonchalantly.

"Yes, that floating palace of his dropped anchor about ten minutes ago. They were lowering a launch as I came downstairs."

"Oh!" cried Muriel, excitedly dropping the roses to the lawn. "There he is now! I can hear him winding up his boat!"

She rang at headlong speed through that arbor way. Another moment and Blake had entered, carrying her in his arms. Kathryn extended her hand to him; he took it in warm, firm, friendly clasp. Elinor nodded.

"'Lo, Tom," was her salutation.

"'Lo, Nell," he returned. "You're getting fat."

"The same to you, and many of 'em," she replied. "Have a good time?"

"Oh, the same old sea-saw." He shrugged broad shoulders. "This running a sailors' boarding house isn't what it's cracked up to be. We hit a three- day executive session of a northeast storm off the Banks that kept us exceedingly busy. Everyone on board was seasick—except the cook."

"Tom," interrupted Kathryn, "I wish you'd come into the library a moment. My lawyers have sent me some papers to sign and return, and I can't make head nor tail of them."

"Of course you can't," he said, assuringly. "I never know what my lawyers are doing. If I did, I'd fire them and do it myself. And they realize it. A lawyer can order a fried egg, cooked on one side only, and make it sound like a royal proclamation announcing a total change of the currency system. They're like doctors and clairvoyants. Their graft lies in being mysterious. Why does a doctor call pink eye muco puerpural conjunctivitis? Because pink eye is not worth more than a dollar at the outside; but when he hands you muco puerpural conjunctivitis, he can get twenty-five at least before you wake up and say, 'Where am I?'"

His humor, perhaps, was forced; possibly there was nothing funny in what he said; but they laughed. There was always a tension at "Grey Rocks," now—always a strain. It needed little to relieve it; it needed that little badly. Blake gave to that little all that he could.

Even the child felt the tension, and the strain of it. She could not have told what it was; but she missed something beside her daddy, infinite was her longing for him, and her loneliness without him.

At times she used to beg the dignified Roberts to play buck-jump, and tag, with her, as "daddy used to do." And this she did while Blake and her mother and her Aunt Elinor were in the library, going over the troublesome papers with their imposing seals and undecipherable writing.

"I've been looking for you everyw'ere, Miss Muriel," the butler announced, impressively. Everything that Roberts did was impressive.

"Were you, Woberts?" she queried. "You didn't want to play hide-and-go seek, did you, Woberts? Because if you did, I'd like to heaps and heaps."

He opened his lips in protest; but she interrupted:

"I'll be it, Woberts, and you can run and hide. Oh! Will you?"

What could he say? It hurt his dignity—it was a distinct prostitution of pride—and yet, what could he say? What could he do? For he, too, loved, pitied, and was sorry.

Thus it was that, returning from the library, Kathryn, Elinor and Blake came upon a red-faced and puffing butler engaged in giving a most realistic imitation of a bear, while a delighted little girl, clapping tiny hands in glee, adjured him to growl as bears growl, not as cows growl.

It was another welcome little break in the tension. And for that it was welcome; welcome, that is, to all but him of the outraged dignity. And even he, though he puffed and huffed below stairs, deep down in his heart was glad that he had sacrificed his most precious possession in such a cause.



CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

TEMPTATION.

Elinor VanVorst swung around in her chair, and eyed her sister.

"Well, Kate?" she asked.

Kate raised violet eyes in protest.

"Please, Nell, don't insist," she begged. "I don't want to talk about it."

Her sister continued, firmly:

"It must be talked of.... You must divorce him, Kate."

"No!"

"But I say, 'Yes!' You should hear what people are saying about you."

"What do I care what people are saying about me? It's what I think of myself that counts."

"That may be true," her sister retorted; "but it's too idealistic for this world.... Moreover, you're not consistent."

Kathryn looked up, quickly.

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

Elinor shrugged her shoulders, a little and answered:

"You're compromising. You're hedging. If he isn't good enough to live with, he isn't good to be married to."

"But," Kathryn protested. "I can't live with him, Nell! You know as well as I how impossible that is."

"Then," returned Elinor, rising, "divorce him."

Kathryn shook her head, wearily.

"I can't do that, either."

The other turned.

"Then what are you going to do?" she demanded. "Are you going on forever being honest neither with him nor with yourself—compromising on the one hand with your womanhood, on the other with your selfishness? How long has it been since you made the slightest effort to see him, or to send anyone to him?"

Kathryn answered, slowly:

"Not since the time I tried to go, and Tom went before me. I—I have thought, often, of going.... But, somehow, I've been—afraid." In almost a whisper, she repeated, "Yes.... Afraid!"

Elinor VanVorst raised her shoulders in an expressive gesture. It conveyed more plainly than could words that her end of the argument was done—her case was rested.

Kathryn considered long, earnestly, in silence. Divorce him! Divorce John Schuyler! It had occurred to her—it had occurred to her in the long silences of the night—in the thousands of aeons that had lain, ofttimes, between the setting of the sun and the rising thereof.... Divorce him! ... It was a thought that stung. He had been to her all that any man could have been. He had been a man of whom her head was proud and her heart fond with the great love that lies in the heart of a good woman. He it was, and God, who had given her the little child that she could see from where she sat, rolling, a tumbled little heap of white lace and whirling brown legs on the broad expanse of the green lawn. He it was who had taken the first of her life—who had shown her what it was to live....

And then this thing had come—this awful, hideous thing that had stretched even her very life to the breaking point, and drained from it the wealth of sweetness to the uttermost drop.... She felt resentment, yes, and horror, and disgust. Yet there were other things, she knew, though she could not have told how she knew. There was something that was hidden—something unknown and unknowable....

Long, she thought, and earnestly—as she had thought so many, many times before—times without end.... At length she rose. Firm little chin was set; violet eyes were firm.

She said, slowly:

"I think I see your point, Nell. You're right.'

"And you'll divorce him?"

Kathryn shook her head.

"No," she replied softly, "I'll go to him."

Elinor started.

"What!" she cried, untrustful of her own ears.

"I have failed in my duty; you have shown me wherein I have failed. I'll go to him."

Elinor caught her hand.

"Kate!" she pleaded. "Kate, dear, listen to me! I haven't shown you your duty if that's what you consider your duty.... I'll tell you something that you haven't thought of.... Muriel."

In almost a gasp, her sister cried:

"Muriel! ... Muriel!"

"Can you take her with you?" demanded Elinor.

Kathryn shook her head.

"No," she replied. "Of course not. I shall leave her here, with you."

Her sister shook her head.

"Do you see?" she queried. "Can you go to him, and live with him, as wife?" Kathryn made no answer. Again Elinor shook her head, gently. "Don't you understand," she asked. "It's compromise on compromise— hedging on hedging. Can't you see how impossible it all is? ... how utterly impossible?"

Torn of anguish, of inability to solve the problems that God had laid before her, Kathryn turned beseeching eyes to her sister.

"But what shall I do, Nell?" she asked, beseechingly. "What can I do.... Wasn't it hard enough, even that way?"

Elinor replied, gently:

"Too hard. I want to make it easier. I want you to leave him irrevocably. Then you can forget him; but not until then."

Kathryn was silent.

"What does Tom say?" she asked, at length. She had learned to depend much upon the big-bodied, big-hearted, big-minded friend of late.

"I haven't asked him," returned her sister. "But I will, now."

She rose, quickly, and went to the rose-strewn arbor-way. She could see Blake, out upon the broad lawn, playing with the child that he loved, boyish, natural, whole-souled, with all the enthusiasm unspoiled that God gives not to many who are grown.

"Tom!" she called.

"Yes?" he answered.

"Will you come here, to us, for a moment? Let Muriel stay with Mawkins."

"Right, oh!" he called, cheerily. In another moment he stood in the opening of the arbor, hair rumpled, clothing awry.

"Well?" he asked, inquiringly.

Elinor began, slowly:

"Tom, Kate and I have been talking, seriously. I want her to leave John Schuyler—legally leave him—leave him for all time. It's the only fair— the only right—thing to do. I'm not going to argue. It is all sufficiently plain. She can't live with him; and yet, as long as she is his wife, she has no right to be away from him. And she can never go to him."

"She wants your opinion, Tom," she went on. "She's always respected your judgment more than mine—more than that of anyone save the man upon whom she may never depend again."

Kathryn had wandered to where the white blooms clustered thickest. She was thinking—thinking deeply, bitterly. Elinor drew closer to Blake.

"I like you, Tom," she said, softly. "You're a good man—a decent man—a clean man—and they're mighty scarce these days.... All that Kate may have owed to John Schuyler, she long since paid to the last sad penny.... All your life you have been paying the things that you did not owe.... There is happiness, somewhere; a happiness that can be found." She thrust out her hand. "Tell her what to do," she said. "Tell her the right thing to do—the thing that should be done." And she turned on her heel, and went away.

For a long, long time Blake stood motionless. Of that which was going on within his soul, no one might know. The expression of his face remained the same, and of his body. Only his hands clenched, and unclenched, and clenched again. It was a difficult position in which he found himself— how difficult only he might know. There lay before him a vast, spreading vista of golden possibility—a possibility of which he had never dared to think—even to dream. Possibly it were but a possibility—and yet surely it was that. A word from him would so make it. That he knew. On the other hand—

For yet a longer time, he stood, hands clenching, unclenching, clenching.... Slowly he went to where the woman he loved stood, slender white fingers plucking nervously at bending blossoms of fragrant whiteness.

She turned, a little. Violet eyes slowly lifted.... He looked into their depths.... His hands clenched, and unclenched more swiftly.

"Kate," he said, at length, slowly, very slowly, "do you want me to tell you what to do?"

She answered, with infinite weariness:

"I—I don't know, Tom.... I'm tired—so, so tired...." And then, abruptly: "Tell me.... Yes, tell me. What shall I do?"

She waited, deep eyes lifted, little head poised wearily upon white, rounded throat.

He answered, very slowly—with effort that even he could not conceal:

"Kate, do you remember that day in June, eight years ago, when you walked down the aisle of Old Trinity. Do you remember how the sun shone in at the windows, flecking the darkness of the old pews with golden motes? John Schuyler met you at the altar; and to him you said, 'For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death us do part.'"

Gently he laid his hand upon her shoulder, with great tenderness.

"Stick, Kate," he advised, softly. "Stick."

And that was all.



CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

THE SHROUD OF A SOUL.

It had been arranged that Blake, again, was to go to him first. Little had been heard of John Schuyler, of late. A drop to desuetude may of its last half be far more silent than of its first. One gathers momentum, as one descends, whether the descent be physical, or moral. At the inception comes the gradual slipping—the vast, frantic effort to stay that slipping—the exertion, the hysteria, the fright, the remorse, the stretching out of hands to aid and of souls to help.... Then, things become different. There comes a vast silence. The hands draw back; the souls are hidden; and when Hope itself lifts its pinions and soars away, then there be little left indeed.

John Schuyler, deserted of friends, deprived of all usefulness in the life that he had loved, found it to be so; and, finding, tried to think no more.... If only the Great God would take from him his brain! ... But He did not....

All were gone from him now save She—The Woman. The doctor came occasionally when summoned by Parks—Parks who had known and loved in other days. And the coming of the doctor, and of Her, were the only things that marked the beginning of the days, and the ending thereof. He lived in the study a part of the time, a part of the time in his rooms. The rest of the house knew him not; and the great out-of-doors, even in its warrenated streets of the city, but seldom. And from the study, at least, all save She were excluded.

He had been worse that day—much worse. Parks had stayed indoors all day, listening. As night came on, he had become frightened. The telephone in the hall had been out of order; and he had taken upon himself the liberty of entering the forbidden demesne; for the doctor must be called.

The door of the library-study creaked as he opened it.... He stopped upon the threshold, aghast.

This could not be the same room that he had seen so short a time before. He looked about him, in horrified disbelief. Before him there lay the very essence of dirt and disorder. Furniture was broken, overturned. Rugs were askew, wrinkled. The desk, upbearing broken bottles and a cluttered mess of paper, letter and debris of all description, was scratched and dented. Pictures sagged drunkenly upon the walls; hangings were torn, and draggled, and over all lay a pall of dust, dank, choking.

Slowly, dreadingly, horror gripping his heart, Parks crossed the room to the desk. He picked up the telephone from where it rested amid the litter and placed the receiver to his ear. The voice of the operator came to him across the wire.

"Hello," he called, "Give me 2290 Plaza, please."

At length there came to him an answer. He inquired:

"Is this Dr. Grenelle's office?" It was the doctor himself. "This is Parks—Mr. Schuyler's secretary.... He is worse—much worse.... You had better send someone to take care of him. I am going away.... Yes, that's all. Goodbye."

Hanging up the receiver, Parks sought amid the confusion of the desk for a sheet of paper, and envelope. At length he found them; but the pens on the desk were beyond use, and the ink-stands dried and dusty.

It had taken Parks a long time to come to the decision that he should leave this house. Long, and faithfully, and well had he served John Schuyler. He had served him gladly, and given of his best. And, until It had come, had he received besides generous pecuniary rewards, the more grateful compensation of pleasant treatment, consideration, good- fellowship, friendliness. He could not have cared more for John Schuyler had he been of kin to him.... But the disintegration of a man's soul, and brain, and body, is not a pleasant thing to watch. It had come to a place where Parks, in his heart, felt that he could do no more. For the rest, there was nothing to detain him longer.

At first Parks, as most, had come to think that the man was innately a libertine, awaiting but the right one to strike the hidden flint and set the tinder aglow—the tinder that would burn, and consume, and destroy. He had known of men like that—of men who went the even pathway of their lives until there crossed it another who tore them from it; and that one they followed, leaving soul and morals and decency and cleanliness forever behind them. This, at first, he had thought to be John Schuyler. For the woman was beautiful—beautiful as an animal is beautiful.... But then he had not been so sure. His confidence had been shaken; for she had looked into his eyes, too, playfully; and he had felt his very being rock upon its foundation, and he had slunk away, chilled, helpless, horror- ridden.... After that he had avoided her. She had paid no attention to him....

So the anger—the disgust—the resentment that at first he had felt had at length been altered to sorrow, and grief, and pity beyond utterance .... Yet there had been nothing that he could do—nothing.... He could not sleep, of nights.... It was killing him, too....

Upon the soiled, rumpled sheet he wrote.... Came a noise behind him. He looked up, quickly, frightenedly.... It was Blake; and quick relief sprang to the clean-cut face.

But the horror of it was in Blake's. Even as had Parks', his eyes wandered dreadingly about the room. The horror of it all was in his soul, too.... For a long time he said no word. He only looked. He thrust the curtains aside.... The dust, impalpable, strangling, fell about him ....

"Good God!" he muttered. "Good God in heaven!"

He saw Parks.

"Has it been like this for long?" he asked.

Parks shook his head.

"I don't know," he answered.... And then: "It must have been. The servants are all gone."

"Servants gone?"

"Yes; there's been no one below stairs for a fortnight. They irritated him, and he discharged them, one and all."

"His valet?"

"Went last night. I go to-morrow.... To have known him as he was—and then to see him as he is—I couldn't stand it any longer."

There was a pause. Blake looked about him. At length he spoke:

"Does—she come here, now?"

"Seldom. No one else ever comes. It's a lonely place, sir—frightfully lonely."

"And he?"

"Drink, if you will pardon me—and remorse. He seems bent only upon forgetting everything. Try as I will I can't keep the brandy from him. All day—all night—he drinks, and drinks, and tries to forget."

Blake nodded. "I see."

Parks continued:

"At first it made him drunk, and he slept. But now it seems only to numb his senses. I hear him all through the night muttering—muttering. I hear him cursing himself—cursing everything, everybody—cursing her—that woman—then calling to her—calling—calling—It's horrible!"

Blake again nodded.

"I had heard," he said. "But I didn't dream it was as bad as this.... It is too late, then, you think—too late to do anything? I had thought that if we should wait—until she was tired—as such as she must tire sooner or later—"

"Too late?" repeated Park. "It has always been too late. It was too late from the first. I was with him, you know."

"Yes—abroad. I had forgotten."

Parks exclaimed, almost fiercely:

"I wish to God I could! He was a man, sir—a man!" Then, in quick transition: "I beg your pardon. But I was very fond of him." He placed the resignation that he had written fair in the center of the desk. He turned to go.

Blake called after him:

"You are leaving?"

Parks nodded.

"Don't you think you'd better stay a little longer? You can help him."

Parks shook his head; there was in his voice a great sadness.

"No one can help him now. It is too late.... Too late."



CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

THE THING THAT WAS A MAN.

Schuyler came down the stairs slowly, leaning heavily against the broken balustrade. He laughed a little, wildly, with the mirthless chill that is of a maniac. His knees bent; he staggered.... And he laughed again....

At first Blake did not know him.... Then, knowing, he could not believe that his eyes brought to his brain the truth.... This was not John Schuyler. It could not be John Schuyler. It was not possible. John Schuyler was at least a man—not a palsied, pallid, shrunken, shriveled caricature of something that had once been human.... John Schuyler had hands—not nerveless, shaking talons.... This sunken-eyed, sunken- cheeked, wrinkled thing was not John Schuyler—this thing that crawled, quiveringly—from the loose, pendulous lips of which came mirth that was more bitter to hear than the sobs of a soul condemned.

Blake's soul was curdled; his senses were numbed; but still his eyes could look.

The ghastly figure stopped in the moonlight, at the landing of the stairs. White, claw-like hand clutched at the drunken curtain and ripped it from its fastenings. The pale light of the moon fell harsh upon it.... Blake shut his eyes....

When again he looked, the figure was at the desk, fumbling with a key.... A drawer screeched in protest. Came from it a rattling as a cadaverous hand drew forth a bottle.... And the thing that had been John Schuyler guzzled.

It laughed again, then, in hollow, mad glee. It staggered forward. Its hollow eyes fell upon the letter that Parks had left. Clutching fingers unsteadily tore end from envelope—drew letter from covering, and hollow, leaden eyes gazed.

Came another wild burst of laughter gone mad. A voice, thick, weak, muffled, weird, said:

"Another enveloped insult. From Parks, the good and faithful Parks." Dull eyes read. "Your employment has become impossible." The letter fell to the floor; the voice cried: "The rats desert the sinking ship!" It chuckled: "Wise rats. Sensible rats!" And then dead eyes saw the man who stood before him.

"You?" They peered, like those of a fish. "Good! I'm glad to see you, even though you have come to scorn, and abuse, and hate. It's a lonely hell, this—lonely."

Blake answered, bitterness in his soul:

"I did not come because I wanted to. It was to prevent her coming—the wife who loved you, and who, God help her, loves you still. She would make one last effort to save you."

Schuyler laughed again.

"There's nothing left to save," he chuckled.

"I know; but I'll try for her sake."

Schuyler lurched into a chair. In ghastly playfulness he looked upon the other.

"Try, then," he cackled. "You did so well last time, that you've come to try again, eh? Well, you've come too late. Do you remember Parmalee—the boy who killed himself? The boy that I called a fool?" He laughed, sardonically. "He's got me now—he, and Van Dam, and Rogers—three damned fools scorching in a hole in hell.... 'A fool there was'" he quoted; then, stopping, suddenly, he half rose, weakly, to his feet.

"Listen!" he cried.

There came utter silence.

"Did you hear?" he queried, triumphantly. "Did you hear her calling?"

It was more than Blake could bear.

"Jack!" he cried, tensely. "Jack!"

Schuyler rounded on him. "Don't call me that!" he said, petulantly. "Call me the Fool."

Blake shook his head, in the gripping horror of it all.

"It makes me sick," he murmured, to himself, "sick at heart!"

Schuyler had heard.

"It makes me sick, too," he cackled. He pointed to the shattered mirror, above the mantel. "Do you see that?" he demanded. "There isn't a whole one in the house. I don't dare to look at myself."

Came to Blake's mind now, stricken and wracked as it had been, by that which he had seen, a glimmer of hope. He had heard of men like this who had come back to life—to reason. It might be fever—fever and drink; and it might be that the fever could be stayed—the drink conquered. John Schuyler had been a strong man. Surely it could not be that in so short a time he had been dragged to the grave's very edge. Lack of attention, lack of care, lack of medicine and nursing and discipline were probably largely responsible. The man might be awakened—brought to himself. It might be possible—

Speculatively, not realizing that he spoke aloud, he asked of himself:

"Is there a chance left? Is there one little chance left, to save him?"

Again Schuyler had heard.

"What would be the use?" he queried, dully. The liquor was passing. "What is there left of me to save? I'm a husk—squeezed dry. I'm a memory—a nightmare. They are calling me—Young Parmalee, Rogers, Seward Van Dam. I drink to them, now, even as they drink to me—scorching in their hole in hell!" He rose weakly to his feet, raising a dirty glass in which splashed a little amber liquor.

Came to Blake the thought that, even though Schuyler could not be redeemed to manhood, he might at least, be saved from death, or worse. He might at least be made again into the semblance of that which he had been. He started forward, hands gripping the edge of the desk, face close to Schuyler's own.

"Jack!" he cried, commandingly. "Look here! I want to talk to you!"

Schuyler slumped again into the depths of his chair. He looked up, dully.

"Yes?"

"Listen!" Blake demanded. "Listen closely. There's a chance for you yet! We'll take you away somewhere—for a year—five years—ten years. You can change your name—make a new start—build yourself a new character—a new honor. There's still happiness for you, Jack! We'll go and find it! Come! Shall we?"

Schuyler answered, dully, with the petulance of the mentally unfit:

"It's too late, I tell you—too late!"

"It's not too late! You'll try! Come!"

"It's too late, I say!" insisted Schuyler, thickly. "She's torn from me everything that makes life worth living. She's taken honor and manhood and self-respect—wife and child and friends—everything—everything but— this!" He patted the bare bottle before him. And then: "Let's drink," he muttered.

Blake sprang forward, desperation overwhelming him.

"My God, this is awful!" he exclaimed. "Haven't you a spark of manhood left? no brains? no bowels? nothing a man can appeal to?"

Schuyler repeated, dully:

"Give me that bottle!"

It was then that Blake came to that which he had mentally intended to be a last resort. Deliberately, not in anger, but in the desperation of a strong man who plays his last card for his ultimate stake, he leaned across the table and deliberately struck Schuyler in the face. It was a hard thing to do; but there are things that so demand. Blake knew that if this time he failed to arouse whatever of latent, atrophied manhood there might be in the breast of the other, that never again, probably, would the shrivelling brain come within call. So he struck; and, following the staggering form, struck again, flat on the face, with open hand, hard, stinging blows. And with these blows he cried, tensely:

"If there's any spirit left in you, I'll arouse it. You pitiful thing that was once a man! You made in God's image? Why, there isn't a swine that wouldn't be ashamed to roll in the same gutter with you!"

With stinging words and stinging blows, he pursued the stumbling figure across the room. Schuyler fell. Blake kicked him, sending foot against body, heavily.

"Get up, you beast!" he ordered. And then, in the horror of it all—in the awful of horror of the hurt of the thing that he was doing: "Great God! Will nothing awaken you?"

Schuyler was scrambling weakly to his feet. In dulled eyes there was a little gleam—the little gleam that Blake had tried so hard, so horribly, to bring. The slobbering lip had set a little and the loose, lax jaw.... There was there the shadow of the John Schuyler that was.... Blake stepped back, gladness in his heart.

He had called him back so far. He would call him back the rest!



CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

AGAIN THE BATTLE.

Schuyler staggered, stumbled to his feet, thin hands clutching for support at chair arm.

"You struck me!" he mumbled, savagely. "You struck me. You'll fight me— fight me!"

He lifted weakly, balancing himself upon unsteady, weakened legs. Blake, stepping back, found his hand against a glass of water. He seized it— advanced a step—and cast the contents of the glass full into Schuyler's contorting face....

Schuyler slowly came to himself. The shock of the blows—of the words— and finally of the water against his head, sent the blood to his brain— banished the liquor, and the dementia, from it.... A weakened, miserable, pitiful imitation he was of the John Schuyler that had been. Yet it was John Schuyler that sat slumped into the chair, gazing up at the friend who had proven his friendship so often and so well.

Schuyler sat for a moment, eyes blinking. At length his hand went forth, slowly.

"Hello, Tom," he said. "I'm glad to see you." Puzzled eyes went about the room, eyes expanding, contracting, like those of a man who, having been long asleep, awakens to find himself in a place unfamiliar.

Blake went to him, leaning over him.

"You can understand me now?" he asked, tensely.

Schuyler looked up.

"Why, yes," he replied. "Of course, Tom. Of course I can understand you." Eyes again sought to solve the mystery of the room; for from the mind cleared had fled all memories of the mind uncleared.

Blake cried:

"You are coming away with us, Jack—away from this hell-snake of yours! You're coming today—now! Do you understand?"

Schuyler nodded.

"Yes," he said. "I understand." In his mind the real and the unreal were clarifying into an accurate whole. He nodded again.

"There's still a chance for you, Jack." Blake continued, earnestly, all his force in his words. "There's still a chance for you. You're going to be strong, and become a man again! Tell me that you will!"

"It's too late, Tom," he replied. There was in the words sadness, despair, hopelessness unutterable. "It's too late. Body, mind, soul are wasted, gone. There's no chance, Tom. It's too late!"

"No!" cried Blake! "There is happiness for you—real happiness—the right happiness! Your wife—your child—"

"Don't speak of them," Schuyler moaned. "Don't! ... Don't!"

"You must think of them, Jack. It's there that salvation lies. Think of the true woman—the wife who loves you. Think of the little one who used to put baby hands around your neck and try to tell you all the beautiful things that only children know. That is what will save you now, Jack—and only that! Think.... Think!"

"It's too late, Tom!"

"It's not too late!"

"You're sure? Quite, quite sure?"

"I'm sure, Jack!"

There was a pause. Schuyler rose. He thrust forth his hand. Blake took it, gripping it in his own.

"I'll go, Tom. I'll go." Came to him a touch of that from which he had been able to withdraw so pitifully little.

"We'll fool her yet, won't we?" he asked, breathlessly. "We'll fool her, and Young Parmalee, and Rogers, and Van Dam and the rest of them. Let's go now, Tom. Take me away! For the love of God who has forsaken me—whom I have forsaken—take me away! Save me from her—from myself—My blood has turned to water, and my bones to chalk! My brain has withered! Good God! What has come over me! To think that I, who could once look in the eye all men, all women, all little children, should have come to this. Look at me! A fool in his drunken Palace of Folly! Dust, dirt, grime, filth all about me—in my home—in my soul! ... I thought it was too late, Tom. I thought from the beginning it was too late. The shame, the disgrace, the loss of honor—of everything, were new to me. I couldn't understand. Then I cursed myself. I swore to God that I wouldn't become the thing I am. But He didn't help me; and I couldn't help myself. I tried! Ah, how I tried! But there was something—her eyes, it was—eyes that burnt and seared!—I tried to kill myself, as Parmalee did. I couldn't.... And the only forgetfulness lay in drink—drink that sapped my strength and drained my veins and shrivelled my brain. Tell me it's a dream, Tom—that it's all but a vile, horrible, grewsome dream! Tell me that I'm the kind of a man you are! the kind of a man I once was! And don't hate me, Tom. Don't loathe, and despise me, all; but pity me a little—just a little!"

He had sunk in a huddled heap to the floor, weak, hysterical—a half- crazed soul in the white-hot crucible of suffering. Blake leaned over him, gently, and lifting him, helped him to the great chair. There was a great, unselfish gladness in his heart. But that gladness had changed swiftly to horror. He stood back aghast. For there had entered the room Kathryn, and Muriel.

The horror of it all did not show in the eyes of the wife. She would not let it. The child, all gladness, ran to her father; she did not notice.

"Daddy! Oh, daddy!" she called.

Schuyler, a huddled heap by the desk, straightened, weakly.

"You!" he cried, brokenly. Tears welled to his eyes. He seized—the little form in his arms, clutching it to him.

Blake turned to Kathryn.

"You should not have come," he said. He was sorry for the hurt he knew she suffered.

"My place is here." She went to Schuyler, stooping over him.

"Jack, dear." She spoke, very quietly.

He lifted his eyes, dim, moist. His lips worked.

"Oh, daddy!" exclaimed the child. "You've been ill! You look awful!" He bent his head.

"Yes, little sweetheart," he answered, in shaking tone, "very ill. God grant you may never know how ill."

"But you're most well, now, aren't you daddy?" she asked, brightly.

"I hope so," he replied. "Ah, how I hope so." Lips and voice both quivered, now.

"And we can play horsie?" she asked.

"Yes," he assented. He essayed to lift her; but even the tiny weight of the little form was too much for his shattered strength. His head sunk upon the table, arm-buried. His body shook.

The child did not see; which was well. She was looking at her mother.

"Mother, dear," she said reproachfully. "You forgot to kiss daddy."

"Did I? I'm sorry."

Willingly Kathryn went to him. He raised thin, white hand in protest.

"Not now," he murmured, brokenly. "It's not fair—not right!"

The situation was hard—hard for all—no less hard for her than for him— no less hard for Blake than for either. He stepped forward, forcing a lightness of tone and of word that lay farthest from his thought. He laid his hand lightly on Schuyler's shoulder.

"Come, Jack," he said crisply. "It's quite all right. There's no cause for anything but gladness. I'll see them to the hotel, and come back for you."

Schuyler clutched at his strong fingers.

"Don't be long, Tom," he begged, whispering.

"Only a moment," returned Blake, so low that only he might hear. Blake knew that he needed time to regain his self-command. He took Muriel by the hand. "Come, Kate," he suggested.

Kathryn shook her head.

"Leave us for a moment," she urged.

"Do you think it best?"

She bent her head. Taking the child, Blake left the room. And slowly Kathryn again went to Schuyler's side.

"John, dear," she said, softly.

His head fell again to his hands.

"I can bear no more, Kathryn," he whispered, weakly. "Oh, God, how great is Thy goodness! The shame of it all! The shame! The utter, utter shame! ... And you, Kathryn, can forgive!"

"I can forgive, John, dear. I do forgive. It was not your fault. Is it the fault of the bird that he goes to his death when the eyes of the snake are upon him? It was not that you were weak, even; it was that— she was strong, strong in the one way in which she leads. I do forgive— forgive and understand."



"You are good beyond all goodness," he murmured, voice low, vibrant.

"No," she said. She smiled a smile that was no smile. And then: "It's been a dream, John—a bitter, bitter dream. But we are awake, now—awake at last. And we'll never dream again—never."

She rose. Violet eyes were moist. She turned away, a little, that he might not see. Her voice was lighter as she asked:

"John, dear. Don't you want me to stay and help you?"

He shook his head.

"Go, Kathryn," he requested. "Go with Tom. It will be more merciful to both of us. And I want to be alone—to try to realize that the chance is mine to redeem myself. I want to ask God to try to forgive me, and, in His infinite mercy, to help me atone for all the wrong I've done you."

She bent her head. It was bitterly hard for her, as for him. She knew, as he said, it would be more merciful to them both that she should go. Gently she bent. Her lips touched his bowed head. Slowly she turned. Slowly she walked across the dirty, disordered room. She looked back, once. He was still sitting there, head buried deep in hands.... She was glad, glad unselfishly. She could give him happiness. Would there ever be happiness for her? She was afraid.... Yet she was glad—glad as Blake was glad—Still there was in her a great, great emptiness.



CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

THE PITY OF IT ALL.

Left alone, John Schuyler sat for long, never-ending moments. He was weak—weak unto the weakness of death. His soul was torn and tossed and twitched within him. At length he rose, slowly, to his feet. A dizziness— a nausea—overmastered him. He reached for the bottle on the table top. As he did so, his foot touched some object upon the floor.... He looked down. It was a bit of broken mirror.... He stooped and picked it up. The light upon the table was on. He turned it so that it might illumine with its merciless rays the last cruel line upon his face.... Slowly, holding the mirror so that eyes might see, he looked.... He fell to his knees.... This thing that he saw was he! He! John Schuyler!

Came to him at length strength to rise. Came to his heart great resolves. He would make atonement to the woman whom he had forsaken—the woman who had not forsaken him. He would make atonement in as far as it lay within possibility—and to the child that was of him and of her he would make atonement. He was but a young man; many years of life should lie before him; and of these years he would give, give all, and ask nothing. It was the sad wreck of a life that lay before him—a stinking, noisome wreck— yet there must be something in it that was neither foul nor unsightly. That thing he would find. He set his jaw. Leaden eyes became bright.... Then, he was near to being a man....

He had started toward the door, to leave forever the scene of his moral, mental, spiritual death—he was almost to the portal—another step would carry him through, and beyond—

She stood there. Red lips were parted in a little, inscrutable smile. White shoulders shimmered. Lithe muscles rippled beneath her gown with every movement of her delicate body. She was beautiful—beautiful as an animal is beautiful. And her eyes were upon his.

He staggered back, clutching at the door jamb for support.

She laughed a little, lightly:

"Just in time. You're going away. Bien. I trust you may have a very pleasant journey."

She swung into the room, lithely, eyes upon him, vivid lips smiling. Rounded arms were clasped behind lissome back.

"And if I hadn't gone," he inquired, "you were about to go?"

She nodded.

"To another fool?"

She shook her head, merrily.

"Oh, no," she replied, red lips pursed. "To a man—this time."

He shrunk a little. The madness was not far behind.

"Well, squeeze him dry," he muttered. "Squeeze the honor and the manhood and the life and the soul out of him, won't you? And then Parmalee, and Rogers, and Van Dam will laugh at him from their hole in hell. And I'll laugh at all of you; for I'll be safe from you all. So squeeze him dry, won't you, you Vampire!"

Again she laughed, gaily. He was very amusing, at times—this thing that had been a man. She slid to the desk, seating herself upon it, swinging small, perfectly shod feet with slender silk-clad ankles.

"So it's all over," she remarked, musingly. "Yet it was sweet while it lasted, wasn't it, My Fool?—sometimes." She tossed at him contemptuously a glowing crimson blossom which she ripped from the great mass at her rounded breast. She went on:

"Those days on the Mediterranean, under the blue skies. And Venice, with the dim silence all about, and the soft night breezes whispering their strange secrets to us as we lay side by side under the rustling canopy— very romantic, for dreamers—and we did dream—didn't we, My Fool?—at least, you did." She laughed again; again she cast at him a crimson blossom, maliciously, tantalizingly. "And Paris. That was good, too— differently. The gay crowds on the Bois, and the races at Longchamps, and the little place in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs—and Saint Antoine, in the Norman hills—and the fuss they made over the newly-wedded couple! It was while we were there, if you will remember, Fool," she went on, in voice caressing but words that stung, "on the morning that we first had breakfast under the grape arbor, with its young green leaves and nodding promises of luscious yield, that there came the letter from your wife."

She laughed, long and merrily. He cried, hoarsely:

"Stop! Damn you, stop! You've tortured me enough!"

"Amedee served us that morning," she continued, unmindful; "or was it Francois?—no, Amedee. He spilt the coffee upon the table cloth twice, in his anxiety lest he embarrass us. And when you kissed me," with a little ripple of mirth, "he looked the other way, covering his lips with his hand. Oh, admirable Amedee! ... The breeze was stirring that morning, Fool—do you remember?—and the dead leaves of yester-year fell about us— so!" She plucked a great handful of crimson petals from her breast and cast them above her head. They fell about him, and about her. "And I dipped sugar in my coffee and fed it to you, and you let me read your wife's letter." Again she laughed.

Through his clenched teeth came a muttered curse.

"It was interesting, drolly interesting.... that letter." she continued. "She couldn't understand why your mission detained you so long!"

Yet again she laughed, merrily, ringingly. Suddenly she shifted, lithely, the poise of her body.

"Bah! I weary of this, and of you.... But before I go," she leaned far forward, eyes on his, vivid lips curved, bare breast shimmering, "a kiss, My Fool!"

"Why do you come here?" he cried, piteously. "Have you not done enough? Is there no pity in your heart—no sympathy—no human feeling of any kind?"

"I've heard you say so, in other days," she smiled.

"Let me go," he begged. "Haven't you done enough? There is no misery that I have not suffered—no degradation that I have not reached—no depths to which I have not sunk—no dishonor that I have not felt. Great God! What more do you want of me?"

He was a pitiful object, sunken, shrivelled, abject. She looked on him with eyes that revealed only amusement—amusement, and power.

She asked, lightly:

"What more could I want of you? What more have you to give, My Fool?"

"There's a chance for me," he pleaded, hysterically; "a little, pitiful chance. Can't you find in that dead thing you call a heart just one shred of pity that I may have that chance that is held out to me? I don't ask much in return for all that I have given—just to be let alone.... Ah, go! Go! Please, please go!"

He was on his knees now, thin hands raised in beseeching. She looked down on him from where she sat, upon the desk, little feet swinging. She raised delicate, arched brows.

"Anyone would think," she declared, "that I had done wrong by you."

He struggled erect.

"By God, I'll have my chance!" he cried. "I'll have it in spite of you! Do you hear? Go!"

"In good time, My Fool," she returned, easily. "When you shall have ceased to amuse me."

"You'll go now," he insisted, frenziedly. "Now!"

He stumbled forward, to grasp the white, rounded arms. She caught his wrists, holding him easily.

"You're not so strong as you were, you know," she said, lightly. Suddenly she thrust him from her, reeling. Her eyes flashed; her lips curved, in scorn.

"You sicken me." And then: "You asked me if I had had all I wanted of you. I have, and more. And now I'll go, and leave you to your 'chance!' But not until—"

She had risen, and gone to the great chair. Into it she sank. He was before her.... She leaned forward, eyes heavy lidded, white arms extended, white teeth glowing, white shoulders shimmering. She hissed, sibilantly:

"A kiss, My Fool!"

He turned from her.... Turned half back again....

"No!" he gasped, weakly.... "No."

She hissed again:

"Kiss me, My Fool!"

The scarlet roses at her breast moved a little. Her lips were parted.... Her eyes were on his....

He cried, thickly, agonizedly:

"I'm free of you! Free, I tell you! I'm going back to wife—to child—to home—to honor! I'm free!"

Her lips curved. Her breast heaved. Her arms glowed. And her eyes were on his.... He came a step nearer—another step—yet another.... He was nearer, now.... She leaned back a little, in the great chair....

He was not a man, now. He was a Thing, and that Thing was of her. Hands hung slack, loose, at his sides; jaw drooped; lips were pendulous. Only, in his eyes was that light that she, and she alone, knew how to kindle.... He was hers, soul, and body, and brain....

Then, suddenly, came of the things that are Unknown. Perhaps came to his ears a voice—to his heart an aid unknown.... His hands stiffened a little.... And then he leaped upon her.

She saw; she had half risen.... Back they went over the great chair, his body on hers, his fingers clutching at her rounded throat. For a moment, they writhed. She screamed, once.... Then, suddenly, his twisted fingers relaxed.... His head fell back. His body, inert, rolled from hers, turned again as it struck the chair, and fell, a thing crushed and dead, at her feet....

She rose, breathing hoarsely from between red, parted lips. There were marks upon her throat.... Perhaps, again, she had overestimated her power.... And yet it were not to be sure of this....

Her skirt-hem lay beneath his body. She stooped, lithely, disengaging it. His fingers clutched torn petals of crimson roses.... She looked.... Then vivid lips parted, and she laughed, a little.

Of that which is known, she knew but little; of that which is unknown, she knew much. Perhaps it is a small thing, after all, to wreck a life.

* * * * *

When they came back, they found him there, alone. He lay prone, on the rug, before the great chair. The moonlight was upon his face; which was not well. Crimson petals, like drops of blood, were upon it; and the redness was crushed between his clutching fingers.

Muriel did not see; for the friend such as few men may ever hope to have and, having, may pray to keep, had thrust the child behind him.

For a long, long time they stood there.... Then slowly, the woman that had been wife turned—her head sunk forward.... She had suffered much, and yet there was in her still the power to suffer; but it was now the suffering of pity—of utter, utter pity.... Head sunk forward, she reeled a little. The man, standing beside her, caught her in strong arm, that she might not fall.... For a tiny moment she rested there—the only rest that she had known since It had come into her life. And who shall say that she was wrong? or he?

Side by side they stood, and gazed upon their dead. They held the little child that she might not see.... Then slowly they turned, and left.... And in the end, perhaps, came to them of God the happiness that they deserved from Him. Perhaps, even it was a happiness refined of the suffering through which they both had passed; for, to know great happiness one must have known great sorrow.

Upon the Altar of Things are made, oft-times, strange sacrifices— sacrifices that we cannot understand, made in a way that we do not comprehend. For God has shown us, even the wisest of us, but little of the world in which we live.

THE END.