Three hours later Fargus dragged himself home, still limp with the violence of that first uncontrolled burst of vengeance, which, like all the passions, had been too intense in its inception not to necessitate an exhausted reaction. But during these three hours he had already put into motion that conception of a punishment which had come to him like a flash at the end of his maddened flight through the city.

What was hardest was to return home. When he reached the street it was already dark and the light in the second story was showing cheerily, while from the hall the veiled glow spread a feeling of delicious warmth. At the sight of the home he had grown so passionately to love such a lust for murder welled up in him that, not daring to look upon Sheila's treacherous face, he fled again.

It was almost half an hour later that he came again to his own door and forced his reluctant feet up the steps. With the key in his hand he remained a long moment, feeling all at once very old and exhausted. Then with a shudder he opened the door.

"Is that you?" the voice of his wife cried instantly. In the greeting, strangely enough, there was a note of gladness. "What kept you? I have been waiting for ever so long."

"Business," he mumbled.

His delay had frightened her. In moments of danger and deception the slightest deviation from the routine fires the imagination with vague terrors. Reassured, she began to move about quickly, humming to herself. Below Fargus listened, one hand raised, his lips moving involuntarily to her singing, aghast at her composure.

"I'm coming—coming right away," she called down. "Go in and order supper."

Before he had moved, she had run down the stairs.

"Heavens!" she cried, stopping short. "How tired you look!"

"Do I?" he said, looking on the floor. "Yes, a headache or something."

"You must take more rest," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder and looking a moment anxiously in his face, before she took her seat at the table.

He had wondered if he could keep his hands from her fair throat,—she came and he could hardly restrain himself from falling at her feet. When he looked at her at last his heart rebelled. He had believed that her perfidy had ended his infatuation. He found in her loveliness the power yet to wound—he suffered, he loved. It was not only the woman he could not give up, but the half, the happier half, of his own self.

Seeing him so weary Sheila felt a sudden movement of pity, a maternal tenderness she had not believed possible. Across the shining little table, which she contemplated from time to time with an affectionate eye, she saw always the intruding shadow of the lawyer, malignant and inexorable, bringing with it the damp and the chill of the outer night. It was a memory and a threat, the shadow of the cold, starved world of poverty which clung to her. Before this real menace her vanities and her whims vanished, and suddenly, on again looking at the man who had placed her amid this coziness and warmth, the tears dimmed her eyes. All at once she realized how desperately she clung to this home of hers, this one satisfying reality in a stretch of past darkness and future menace. Threatened in this joy of possession her heart was softened towards her husband, whose suffering she now comprehended with her own. She raised her head and said compassionately:

"How tired you are, dear! You aren't ill, are you?"

At this, her first caress, he twitched violently as from a shock of pain, and drawing his hand hastily across his forehead he stammered inaudibly:

"No, no."

He fastened his gaze desperately on his plate; to look at her would have meant surrender. He had an immense impulse to seize her in his arms, to overwhelm the fair, treacherous face with kisses, to forego and to forget and to sink into a shameless, passionate subjection. To himself he repeated again and again:

"Yes, yes, I love her—I want to love her!"

Sheila also was stirred by the responsive emotion one endearing word had brought.

"If he loves me like that," she thought, trembling on the verge of a confession, "he might forgive me anything."

And shaken with the daring of the thought she sought the courage to throw herself on her knees and cry his mercy.

The pause lasted but a moment. Neither suspected what was in the soul of the other or that three destinies hung on a word. A glance of affection would have brought Fargus shamelessly to her knees, a flash of courage and she would have confessed and been forgiven. The ironical moment passed. She did not quite dare. But to distract him she said gently:

"I'm going to tell Mr. Bofinger to give you as good advice as he gave me. And by the way, what has become of him all this time?"

That speech decided two fates. In Fargus every human emotion froze. From the rage of subjection he passed violently to the rage of murder. Where a moment before he had been on the point of stretching forth his hands in supplication he was now shaken with a blinding passion to possess himself with something murderous, with which to rush on her and blot out forever both her treachery and his infatuation.

"Fargus!" she cried in horror. "What is it? Why do you look so?"

"Me?" he mumbled, thrusting away from him the knife by his plate with a gesture she could not understand. "What—what was it?"

"I asked if Mr. Bofinger was away," she said, following him in alarm. "And why you haven't seen him."

"Ah, Bofinger!" he cried, and his fist cracked on the table like the sound of a curse.

"What jealousy!" she thought to herself, and reassured she began to laugh openly.

"Why do you laugh?" he demanded fiercely.

"Monster of jealousy!" she said, smiling. "What a lot of trouble that naughty remark of mine has made!"

"Go on," he said, drawing his eyebrows together. Then to himself he added furiously: "Actress—vile actress, lie now to me if you can."

"I'm penitent, my dear; I own up," she said with mock humility. "Your friend talked economy and poverty to me until I expected he was going to send you back to your old ways. So to be rid of him I made up my mind to make you jealous. You remember?" And looking at him with challenging eyes she burst out laughing. "Since then, you can't bear to hear his name. Isn't that true?"

"No," he said gruffly, cursing her cleverness. "No, I am not jealous."

"Fib!" she said, wagging a finger. "And it's all my fault."

"No."

"You're not made for telling lies," she said with a shake of her head. "Leave that for those who know. Shall we ask Mr. Bofinger to supper then—to-morrow night?"

He did not answer, raging at the skill with which she enmeshed him.

"And you're not jealous!" she cried, clapping her hands triumphantly.

Then rising and coming to his side with the fawning movement of a cat she laid her hand on his arm, saying with a sudden shift to seriousness:

"Forgive me my foolish teasing. I'll feel awfully hurt if you let that come between you and an old friend. As for Mr. Bofinger, you silly man, he oils his hair and his eyes have a squint!"

"Then you want him?" he said, without raising his eyes from her jeweled, supple fingers.

"Please—for to-morrow," she answered with the air of making an atonement. "And—I'll not be so wicked again."

Strangely enough, in the presence of such perfected acting Fargus found new strength and a fierce delight in matching wits.

"Well, well!" he said, forcing a fierce smile. "That was all, was it? And you are sure you want Mr. Bofinger?"

"Please."

"That decides it then!" he said grimly; and to him the words were as the casting of a die.

The emotion of vengeance is supreme among human passions. Beyond love itself, of which it is often the ultimate phase, it is so exacting and absorbing that only the most intense natures can guard it long in their hearts without being thereby consumed. The generality of men prefer to excuse and forget. The man who can pursue a vengeance relentlessly, and at the sacrifice of his own desires, has in him either a little of the woman or of the savage, in whom the egotism of civilization is unknown; or a touch of that madness which distinguishes fanatics and misanthropes, those who are ready to sacrifice themselves for humanity or those who despise it. In measure as this supreme passion dominated Fargus it educated him and, from a first tempestuous upsetting, it calmed him and gave to him the strength of deception, the joy of matching his wits against the woman and a confidence in the ultimate day. His demeanor during the supper at which Bofinger was present surprised him. Forewarned he viewed their adroit maneuvering to develop a quarrel with scorn and amusement. He found in himself another man, the creature of his new purpose, who suffered no longer. But at times the other returned with the intensity of pain.

Two days after the supper with Bofinger, Fargus returned one night with a vigor and a zest that impressed Sheila at once.

"Ah, you're different to-night," she said, looking at him with interest.

"Yes, Sheila, I am," he cried, taking her hand and squeezing it joyfully. "Luck, great luck!"

Wondering much she followed him up-stairs, where without preliminaries he brought out a bundle of papers and said with a smile:

"Sheila, we're going to have a business talk. Something unexpected has happened. First—there!"

Picking out of the bundle a book he offered it to her with an expectant smile. She took it with a feeling of apprehension, watching him in almost dismay. It was a bank book inscribed with her name.

"For me?" she cried, "but—what—why?"

"You have said you don't have enough money," he answered drily. "You are now to run the house—all expenses except rent. Every three months four hundred dollars will be paid in to your account."

She looked and saw that amount entered to her credit. This development in her husband so overwhelmed her that she could not for a time muster words to thank him. When she started he cut her short.

"Now listen, Sheila, you've been wondering, haven't you, what has worried me these last days." He stopped with a questioning look, reveling in his new power of deception. "Three days ago I was afraid that the chance to make millions was going to escape me. To-day I have it in my hand. Yes, Sheila, millions—millions!"

Across her mind there passed the terrible thought that Bofinger had found an opening, and she said anxiously:

"Is it a secret?"

"Absolutely," he answered. "A secret for every one!"

"It's a plan, then, of Mr. Bofinger's!" she said with conviction.

"Bofinger, heavens no!" he cried in real alarm. "He has no idea of it; and, Sheila, no one must know, no one!"

"Never fear," she cried, relieved. "Not a word shall pass my lips, I promise you! But, Max, you say millions," she added incredulously; "in your enthusiasm don't you—what do you really mean?"

"No, millions!" he cried, smiting his palms. Then leaning forward and grasping a knee in either squat hand he began nervously:

"To-morrow I'm leaving for Mexico. When I come back, if all goes well, there is nothing you can wish for you can't have."

At this extraordinary promise, all of a sudden, like a mist, there rolled up before the woman a glittering vision of luxury and splendor; carriages beautifully fashioned, rolling behind swift horses, boxes at the opera dimmed by apparitions of bewildering satins and silks, which in turn disappeared before the fascination of glistening jewelry. She shut her eyes and with a sigh relaxed in the gentle happiness. Fargus lost not a sign of her emotion. He smiled as a master smiles. He held her. He proceeded rapidly, finding in the thought of her deception a joy which she imagined came from his words.

"Four years ago I staked out a miner who came to me with tales of the Mexican silver mines. I supplied him on condition to have two thirds of his findings. He is not the first I've done that for. He wrote me a week ago that he was returning successful. To-day I saw him and, Sheila, not only has he discovered a mine that promises everything, but he brings me the chance to buy up one which they think is worked out, but which really is filled with millions. There is in this business," he said, nodding wisely, "something queer, a bit of treachery; but let the owners look to themselves. The more fools they to be deceived! I shall go to-morrow and investigate both with an expert, on the quiet. Now, in order that I can close as soon as I am sure, I have brought these papers to you to sign."

She received the papers without a glance, saying breathlessly:

"And you really believe there is a chance?"

"A chance? A certainty!"

She leaned over and took his hands, saying with tears in her eyes:

"O Max, if it is only true!"

"There, there, read over the papers," he said nervously, withdrawing his hands. "If everything goes well I shall sell some of my restaurants and cinch the bargain. The papers are a formality—your consent to the sales in case they are made. Of course," he added with a shrug, "if nothing turns up I shan't sell."

"Oh, don't speak of such a thing!" she said with a superstitious shiver. "Where shall I sign?"

"There and there," he said, imposing his finger and hiding his eyes. "To-morrow we'll go before a notary and you can acknowledge your signature."

"And why that?" she said, signing carelessly.

"To show, my dear, that your signature is given willingly and not by compulsion."

She lifted her head and met his glance. The two burst into laughter.

The next morning the deeds were duly executed at the Union Bank, where Sheila was identified. After lunch she insisted on packing everything herself. She arranged his tie, smoothed his coat, studying him with an affection as sincere and deep as her hunger for the vision of wealth he had so marvelously held out to her.

"Now remember," he said sternly, "if anyone asks, say I'm off on business."

"I will."

"But you don't know where."

"Never fear."

"You might say, if necessary, that it was to look up some oyster beds."

"I will."

"Good-by, then," he blurted out, reaching out his hand.

"Not like that!" she cried in protest, and flinging herself into his arms she kissed him. Then holding herself from him, seizing his shoulders, she cried fervently:

"Oh, Max, bring me only what you promised, and I'll give you all without reserve. All!"