"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d! 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 G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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 a.s.sented. 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, G.o.d, 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 G.o.d 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.