"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 G.o.d 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

THE THING THAT WAS A MAN.

Schuyler came down the stairs slowly, leaning heavily against the broken bal.u.s.trade. 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, m.u.f.fled, 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 h.e.l.l, 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, G.o.d 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 d.a.m.ned fools scorching in a hole in h.e.l.l.... '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."