Vanulm, standing by the window, hat in hand, abstractedly watched the carriage swing smoothly down the street and stop, with a jingle of harness, in front of his door. Abstractedly he walked slowly down the steps and out toward the street, and had even started to get into the carriage, for once without remembering his never-failing word to the coachman on the box, so that the dignified James, violating much against his will all the traditions of his craft, was at last obliged to speak without first being spoken to.

With a preliminary cough he touched his hat. "Begging your pardon, sir," he said, "but is there any chance?"

Vanulm, coming to himself with a start, glanced quickly up. Then slowly he shook his head. "The doctors think not, James," he answered; "we can only hope they may be wrong. We'll drive straight to the hospital, please."

The coachman touched his hat again, and at the word the spirited grays, chafing at the delay, swung swiftly away down the avenue. Out through the long, smooth streets they sped, out through the Arborway, flower and bush and tree still lying cool and green and fair in the splendor of the soft Indian summer day; now slower and slower as the gradually recurring hills grew more frequent and more frequent still, until at last, at the summit, they drew up before the door of the hospital, isolated, restful, serene, looking far off over the valley and the broad blue river winding peacefully along through the cool, green fields, in the wistfully lingering sunshine of the waning afternoon.

Doctor Stratton, the foremost man of his day, slight, alert, composed, met them at the door. With a curt word of greeting he led the way within, and motioned Vanulm to a seat. For a moment or two he sat silent, a troubled frown upon his face. Then he glanced quickly up.

"Vanulm," he said abruptly, "this whole business of getting you to come out here comes pretty near being unprofessional. In the first place, the governor's going to die; there's not the slightest doubt of that whatever. If any man with that hole through him could live, he's the one. He's got more nerve and more will power than any man I've ever met, and that's saying a good deal, too; I've seen some plucky men in my time. But—no human being with that wound could pull through, and I doubt if he can even last out the night. Now, on the one hand, you can't fail to excite him, and will probably hasten the end; on the other hand, he's evidently got something on his mind that troubles him, and you're the one man he wants to tell it to. Therefore, considering his temperament, to me it seems better, even if it does result badly, to let him see you. Not to allow it would be rank cruelty. Simply, if you can help it, don't let him excite himself, and above all, don't let him make any attempt to raise himself in bed. I'll be directly outside, if you should want me. That's all. I suppose we might as well go up now." He rose, and Vanulm, following suit, laid his hand for a moment on Stratton's arm. "Just one question, Doctor," he said, "suppose he starts to talk about how it happened. Shall I let him go on?"

The physician shook his head. "He won't," he answered, "I even tried him on it myself, and his answer was most curious. 'I'm not talking,' he said. 'It was the same game with both of us. Let him get away with it, for all of me,' and not another word would he say. So come, we'd better not waste time."

As quietly as possible, Vanulm entered the darkened room and took his way over to the narrow bed by the window. In spite of all the doctor had said, he could scarcely repress a start. The face that looked up at him was fearfully changed—haggard, unshaven, pale, drawn with pain—only the eyes, upturned to meet his own, gleamed still with all the unquenchable fire of old. Gordon's mouth half parted in the pathetic semblance of a smile, and more by his glance than by any real movement of his head, he signed his visitor to take the chair that stood beside his bed. In silence Vanulm did so, and Gordon, with evident effort, began to speak, his voice not strong, and yet distinct and clear.

"I knew you'd come, Herman," he said. "Devil of a time to get 'em to send for you, but Stratton's a pretty good sort, though. Not a damn pompous old fool like most of 'em. I suppose he's told you. I'm dying. He told me this morning. Thought it was news, but I knew it already. It doesn't need a doctor when the time comes. Any fool can tell—"

He broke off sharply, his lips contorted in a spasm of pain. Vanulm, frightened, made as if to rise, but the sick man frowned and shook his head. "No, no," he whispered, "don't get him. All right in a minute. Leave me alone." And after a moment, indeed, the look of pain left his face, and he went on. "I'd better make it short," he said, "short as I can, but I want to tell you. Remember, Herman, away back, five years ago, a dinner Jim Norton gave to that submarine chap; four or five of us there?"

Vanulm nodded, and an expression of relief came over Gordon's face. "Good," he said, "saves a lot of explanation. Remember we talked religion? Remember I told about a chap that was going to make a gamble out of life? Going to risk everything on there not being any God?"

Vanulm, his eyes fixed on Gordon's face, nodded again.

The sick man spoke quickly, eagerly. "I was the man, Herman," he whispered. "I always pretended religion; I knew in lots of ways it would help me, and it has. I've got men that way that I never could have got in any other. But the whole thing was a lie; to the world I've been a sneaking hypocrite; to myself I've lived straight; no bluffs; no lies; no whining; I've lived my life, and had my fun; and I'm ready to pay—if we have to pay."

He paused, and suddenly his glance found Vanulm's. Keenly he sought to read the expression there; then, with just the shadow of a smile, nodded to himself. "I thought so," he said. "How long have you known?"

"I haven't known," answered Vanulm, "only suspected, from things that have happened lately, that it might be so. In fact, if it hadn't seemed like such a damned piece of impertinence—"

Gordon took the words from his lips. "Yes," he said quickly, "the day you took me to drive. I knew it. I knew you meant well by me, Herman, but it wouldn't have done any good then. It was too late."

The brewer's kindly face took on a troubled frown. "Dick," he said diffidently, "I'm not religious myself, but they say—"

Gordon strove to raise a protesting hand. "Damn it, Herman," he cried, "it's harder than I thought. You're the only man I ever cared a straw for; I suppose that's the reason. But I've got to tell you. I've gone the limit. I was the man that killed Harry Palmer."

I have gone the limit.

Vanulm half recoiled, then made as if to rise, but again Gordon shook his head. "No, no," he said, "it isn't fever; I'm as sane as you are; I wanted money; I tried to blackmail him; drugged him, and made him believe he'd ruined a girl; bled him for a hundred thousand; and then, by the devil's own luck, the thing leaked out. Then it was my life against his, and he was fool enough not to see it. I got my chance out on the island, and I shot him, and threw his body into the quicksand over by the point. That same night I killed the woman who told him, and that's how I got my start. Then came the time about the Konahassett—the Ethel, they called it then—and I couldn't come to terms with Mason; he was honest—and stubborn—and that left only one way. I killed him, and to make things sure, I killed the only woman that ever really cared for me, and married Mason's daughter—" he smiled sneeringly—"the young woman you thought so charming, and who tired of me when she thought my money was gone. To make the thing safe, I had to get the murders saddled on a poor old drunk out there; that never troubled me much, though; he was only a pawn in the game. So I got the mine. And since then, as you probably know, I've been fooling the people right and left—the people that have trusted me; all my stock market letters were fakes; all my battle with the moneyed interests was a sham—I've been hand in glove with them, from the start. My politics have been rotten, right through; I've bought, bribed, corrupted, betrayed, and yet they've followed me like sheep; if I'd have lived, I'd have been president of this country; deals; combinations; God, how, I had things lined up; and now I'm through; I've had my turn at the game; I'm through; and we're counting up the score."

As he spoke, a curious light had come into his eyes; slowly the color had crept back into his sunken cheeks; even his voice had taken on something of its old, commanding ring. Fascinated, Vanulm gazed at him without speaking, and the dying man, almost as if in a state of exaltation, went on: "I've played square with myself, Herman; square all the way through; and I'm not afraid, now. It's been a fair game. I've seen what I wanted, and I've taken it. Money? I've made my fortune. Twenty million dollars, Herman; no more, no less; and I could have doubled it, trebled it, in ten years more. And everything it could buy; I've gratified every wish of man; God, Herman, I've lived a dozen lives in one. Power? I've made history in the market; I've changed a state in politics; five years more, and I'd have changed the destiny of the country. Success? There isn't a man alive that's accomplished more. Every one's envied me, looked up to me, tried to copy me, even. And the preachers say a man is nothing; it's a lie, Herman; a man's a god; man is God; I've played the game through, and I know. Herman, get that doctor; I won't die; I can't die; I tell you I'll be president yet. Great God, Herman—"

The light faded from his countenance as it had come; from his pallid face the tide of life ebbed again; his eyes closed like a tired child's; then, in an instant, he opened them again, and gazed at Vanulm with an expression that the latter had never seen before.

"Good old Herman," he muttered drowsily, "I knew he'd come. Off my head a minute, I guess. Feverish, maybe; that night did it, that night it rained—"

He stopped, with an expression of complete bewilderment; once, twice and thrice he gazed around the unfamiliar room; then drew a long sigh, as if at last awakened from sleep.

"Herman," he said quietly, "God knows what rot I've been talking. I'm pretty near gone; I know it; but whether I go off wandering again or not, I'm sane now; as sane as you are; do you believe me?"

Vanulm nodded silently. It took no eye of experience, indeed, to see that the sands of life were running low.

"There's something more you want to say?" he asked, with sudden intuition.

Gordon spoke with ineffable sadness. "Herman," he said, his voice scarcely raised above a whisper, "I've made a horrible mess of things. I know it now. If only—" his voice faltered—"if only I could go back to that day on the island with Rose. I can remember so well. 'A cottage in the country,' she said, 'with you all to myself.' Herman, I didn't know it then, but that day I shut myself out of Paradise. That day was the parting of the ways. And since then it's been down and down and down—Palmer, and poor Annie Holton, and old Jim and Rose, and I ruined May Sinclair's life, and I ruined poor Jack's—and Hinckley—poor fool—he had as good a right to live as I—Ah! God! Herman, what I've got is turned to ashes. Gold—Love bought for gold—Power bought for gold—all Gold. Everything—and Nothing! And I could have had friends—money enough to live on—and a woman who loved me. Think, Herman—" and his voice sank very low—"a woman who loved me, and, after all, that is life."

His voice died away. There was a long silence. Outside, the wind stirred gently the clambering vines, and a ray of sunlight darted, questing, into the quiet room. The sick man turned his head, and his voice was very low. "And after that, Herman," he said, "a good friend; the friend you've always been to me; the kind of a friend I might have been to you."

Again fell silence. Once outside a song-sparrow sang sweet and clear his brave little song, and the sick man smiled. At last he turned his head, and with a great effort raised his hand until it touched Vanulm's. "Good-by, Herman," he said.

And then, over the quiet of the peaceful afternoon came a change, sudden, terrible. Before Vanulm could stir, the sick man dashed aside his coverings and raised himself bolt upright in the bed, his eyes burning, his face working convulsively, his whole expression that of a man who looks upon a sight of horror. "I've lost!" he shrieked, in a terrible voice. "Oh, God, I've lost!"

Vanulm had leaped to his feet; at the same instant the doctor rushed into the room, but a doctor was no longer needed. In one great crimson stream the bright red blood gushed from the sick man's mouth, and the body, lifeless, inert, sprawled horribly back among the pillows. The Honorable Richard Gordon was dead.

THE END