Transfixed, they watched James Brood take two or three steps into the room. At his back was the swarthy Hindu, his eyes gleaming like coals of fire in the shadowy light.

“James!” fell tremulously from the lips of Yvonne. She swayed toward him as Ranjab grasped his arm from behind.

Frederic saw the flash of something bright as it passed from the brown hand to the white one. He did not at once comprehend.

“It happened once,” came hoarsely from the throat of James Brood. “It shall not happen again. Thank you, Ranjab.”

Then Frederic knew. The Hindu had slipped a revolver into his master's hand!

“It gives me great pleasure, Yvonne, to relieve you of that worthless thing you call your life.”

As he raised his arm Frederic sprang forward with a shout of horror. Scarcely realising what he did, he hurled Yvonne violently to one side.

It was all over in the twinkling of an eye. There was a flash, the crash of an explosion, a puff of smoke, and the smell of burned powder.

Frederic stood perfectly still for an instant, facing the soft cloud that rose from the pistol-barrel, an expression of vague amazement in his face. Then his hand went uncertainly to his breast.

Already James Brood had seen the red blotch that spread with incredible swiftness—blood-red against the snowy white of the broad shirt bosom. Glaring with wide-open eyes at the horrid spot, he stood there with the pistol still levelled.

“Good God, father, you've—why, you've———” struggled from Frederic's writhing lips, and then his knees sagged; an instant later they gave way with a rush and he dropped heavily to the floor.

There was not a sound in the room. Suddenly Brood made a movement, quick and spasmodic. At the same instant Ranjab flung himself forward and grasped his master's arm. He had turned the revolver upon himself! The muzzle was almost at his temple when the Hindu seized his hand in a grip of iron.

“Sahib! Sahib!” he hissed. “What would you do?” Wrenching the weapon from the stiff, unresisting fingers, he hurled it across the room.

Brood groaned. His tall body swerved forward, but his legs refused to carry him. The Hindu caught him as he was sinking limply to his knees. With a tremendous effort of the will, Brood succeeded in conquering the black unconsciousness that was assailing him. He straightened up to his full height and with trembling fingers pointed to the prostrate figure on the floor.

“The pistol, Ranjab! Where is it? Give it to me! Man, can I live after that? I have killed my son—my own son! Quick, man!”

“Sahib!” cried the Hindu, wringing his hands. “I cannot! I cannot!”

“I command you! The pistol!”

Without a word the Hindu, fatalist, slave, pagan that he was, turned to do his master's bidding. It was not for him to say nay, it was not for him to oppose the will of the master, but to obey.

All this time Yvonne was crouching against the table, her horrified gaze upon the great red blotch that grew to terrible proportions as she watched. She had not moved, she had not breathed, she had not taken her hands from her ears where she had placed them at the sound of the explosion.

“Blood! It is blood!” she moaned, and for the first time since the shot was fired her husband glanced at the one for whom the bullet had originally been intended.

An expression of incredulity leaped into his face, as if he could not believe his senses. She was alive and unhurt! His bullet had not touched her. His brain fumbled for the explanation of this miracle. He had not aimed at Frederic, he had not fired at him, and yet he lay stretched out there before him, bleeding, while the one he had meant to destroy was living—incomprehensively living! How had it happened? What agency had swept his deadly bullet out of its path to find lodgment in the wrong heart? There was no blood gushing from her breast; he could not understand it.

She did not take her eyes from the great red blot; she was fascinated by the horror that spread farther and farther across the gleaming white. She was alone, utterly alone with the most dreadful thing she had ever known; alone with that appalling thing called death. A life was leaving its warm, beautiful home as she watched, leaving in a path of red, creeping away across a stretch of white!

“Blood!” she wailed again, a long, shuddering word that came not from her lips but from the very depths of her terror-stricken soul.

Slowly Brood's mind worked out of the maze. His shot had gone straight, but Frederic himself had leaped into its path to save this miserable creature who would have damned his soul if life had been spared to him.

Ranjab crawled to his side, his eyes covered with one arm, the other extended. Blindly the master felt for the pistol, not once removing his eyes from the pallid figure against the table. His fingers closed upon the weapon. Then the Hindu looked up, warned by the strange voice that spoke to him from the mind of his master. He saw the arm slowly extend itself with a sinister hand directed straight at the figure of the woman. This time Brood was making sure of his aim, so sure that the lithe Hindu had time to spring to his feet weapon.

“Master! Master!” he cried out.

Brood turned to look at his man in sheer bewilderment. What could all this mean? What was the matter with the fellow?

“Down, Ranjab!” he commanded in a low, cautious tone, as he would have used in speaking to a dog when the game was run to earth.

“There is but one bullet left, sahib!” cried the man.

“Only one is required,” said the master hazily.

“You have killed your son. This bullet is for yourself.”

“Yes! But—but see! She lives! She———”

The Hindu struck his own breast significantly.

“Thy faithful servant remains, sahib. Die, if thou wilt, but leave her to Ranjab. There is but one bullet left. It is for you. You must not be here to witness the death Ranjab, thy servant, shall inflict upon her. Shoot thyself now, if so be it, but spare thyself the sight of———”

He did not finish the sentence, but his strong, bony fingers went through the motion that told a more horrible story than words could have expressed. There was no mistaking his meaning. He had elected himself her executioner.

A ghastly look of comprehension flitted across Brood's face. For a second his mind slipped from one dread to another more appalling. He knew this man of his. He remembered the story of another killing in the hills of India. His gaze went from the brown fanatic's face to the white, tender, lovely throat of the woman, and a hoarse gasp broke from his lips.

“No! No! Not that!” he cried, and as the words rang out Yvonne removed her horrified gaze from the blot of red and fixed it upon the face of her husband. She straightened up slowly and her arms fell limply to her sides.

“It was meant for me. Shoot, James!” she said, almost in a whisper.

The Hindu's grasp tightened at the convulsive movement of his master's hand. His fingers were like steel bands.

“Shoot!” she repeated, raising her voice. “Save yourself, for if he is dead I shall kill you with my own hands! This is your chance—shoot!”

Brood's fingers relaxed their grip on the revolver. A fierce, wild hope took all the strength out of his body; he grew faint with it.

“He—he can't be dead! I have not killed him. He shall not die, he shall not!”

Flinging the Hindu aside, he threw himself down beside the body on the floor. The revolver, as it dropped, was caught in the nimble hand of the Hindu, who took two long, swift strides toward the woman who now faced him instead of her husband. There was a great light in his eyes as he stood over her, and she saw death staring upon her.

But she did not quail. She was past all that. She looked straight into his eyes for an instant and then, as if putting him out of her thoughts entirely, turned slowly toward the two men on the floor. The man half-raised the pistol, but something stayed his hand, something stronger than any mere physical opposition could have done.

He glared at the half-averted face, confounded by the most extraordinary impression that ever had entered his incomprehensible brain. Something strange and wonderful was transpiring before his very eyes, something so marvellous that even he, mysterious seer of the Ganges, was stunned into complete amazement and unbelief.

That strange, uncanny intelligence of his, born of a thousand mysteries, was being tried beyond all previous exactions. It was as if he now saw this woman for the first time, as if he had never looked upon her face before. A mist appeared to envelop her, and through this veil he saw a face that was new to him, the face of Yvonne, and yet not hers at all. Absolute wonder crept into his eyes.

As if impelled by the power of his gaze, she faced him once more. For what seemed hours to him, but in reality only seconds, his searching eyes looked deep into hers. He saw at last the soul of this woman, and it was not the soul he had known as hers up to that tremendous moment. And he came to know that she was no longer afraid of him or his powers. His hand was lowered, his eyes fell, and his lips moved; but there were no words, for he addressed a spirit. All the venom, all the hatred fled from his soul. His knee bent in sudden submission, and his eyes were raised to hers once more, but now in their sombre depths was the fidelity of the dog.

“Go at once,” she said, and her voice was as clear as a bell.

He shot a swift glance at the prostrate Frederic and straightened his tall figure, as would a soldier under orders. His understanding gaze sought hers again. There was another command in her eyes. He placed the weapon on the table. It had been a distinct command to him.

“One of us will use it,” she said monotonously. “Go!”

With incredible swiftness he was gone. The curtains barely moved as he passed between them, and the heavy door made no sound in opening and closing. There was no one in the hall. The sound of the shot had not gone beyond the thick walls of that proscribed room on the top floor. Somewhere at the rear of the house an indistinct voice was uttering a jumbled stream of French.

Many minutes passed. There was not a sound, not a movement in the room. Brood, kneeling beside the outstretched figure of his unintended victim, was staring at the graying face with wide, unblinking eyes. He looked at last upon features that he had searched for in vain through all the sullen years. There was blood on his hands and on his cheek, for he had listened at first for the beat of the heart. Afterward his agonised gaze had gone to the bloodless face. There it was arrested.

A dumb wonder possessed his soul. He knelt there petrified by the shock of discovery. In the dim light he no longer saw the features of Matilde, but his own, and his heart was still. In that revealing moment he realised that he had never seen anything in Frederic's countenance save the dark, never-to-be-forgotten eyes, and they were his Matilde's. Now those eyes were closed. He could not see them, and the blindness was struck from his own.

He had always looked into the boy's eyes, he had never been able to seek farther than those haunting, inquiring eyes, but now he saw the lean, strong jaw and the firm chin, the straight nose and the broad forehead, and none of these was Matilde's. These were the features of a man, and of but one man. He was seeing himself as he was when he looked into his mirror at twenty-one.

All these years he had been blind; all these years he had gone on cursing his own image. In that overpowering thought came the realisation that it was too late for him to atone. His mind slowly struggled out of the stupefied bondage of years. He was looking at his own face. Dead, he would look like that! Matilde was gone for ever, the eyes were closed, but he was there; James Brood was still there, turning grayer and grayer of face all the time.

All the pent-up rage of years rushed suddenly to his lips and an awful curse issued, but it was delivered against himself. He started to rise to his feet, his mind bent on the one way to end the anguish that was too great to bear. The revolver!

It had been cruel, it should be kind. His heart leaped. He had a few seconds to live, not longer than it would take to find the weapon and place it against his breast—just so long and no longer would he be compelled to live.

He had forgotten the woman. She was standing just beyond the body that stretched itself between them. Her hands were clasped against her breast and her eyes were lifted heavenward. She had not moved throughout that age of oblivion.

He saw her and suddenly became rigid. Slowly he sank back, his eyes distended, his jaw dropping. He put out a hand and saved himself from falling, but his eyes did not leave the face of the woman who prayed, whose whole being was the material representation of prayer. But it was not Yvonne, his wife, that he saw standing there. It was another Matilde!

A hoarse, inarticulate sound came from his gaping mouth, and then issued the words that his mind had created unknown to him while he knelt, but now were uttered in a purely physical release from the throat that had held them back through a period of utter unconsciousness. He never knew that he spoke them; they were not the words that his conscious mind was now framing for deliverance. He said what he had already started to say when his soul was full of hatred for Yvonne.

“You foul, cringing———” and then came the new cry—“Matilde, Matilde! Forgive! Forgive!”

Slowly her eyes were lowered until they fell full upon his stricken face.

“Am I going mad?” he whispered hoarsely. As he stared the delicate, wan face of Matilde began to fade and he again saw the brilliant, undimmed features of Yvonne. “But it was Matilde! What trick of———”

He sprang to his feet and advanced upon her, stepping across the body of his son in his reckless haste. For many seconds they stood with their faces close together, he staring wildly, she with a dull look of agony in her eyes, but unflinching. What he saw caused an icy chill to sweep through his tense body and a sickness to enter his soul. He shrank back.

“Who—who are you?” he cried out in sudden terror. He felt the presence of Matilde. He could have stretched out his hand and touched her, so real, so vivid was the belief that she was actually there before him. “Matilde was here—I saw her, I saw her. And—and now it is you! She is still here. I can feel her hand touching mine—I can feel—no, no! It is gone—it—has passed. She has left me again. I—I———”

The cold, lifeless voice of Yvonne was speaking to him, huskier than ever before.

“Matilde has been here. She has always been with her son. She is always near you, James Brood.”

“What—are—you—saying?” he gasped.

She turned wearily away and pointed to the weapon on the table.

“Who is to use it—you or I?”

He opened his mouth, but uttered no sound. His power of speech was gone.

She went on in a deadly monotone.

“You intended the bullet for me. It is not too late. Kill me, if you will. I give you the first chance—take it, for if you do not I shall take mine.”

“I—I cannot kill you, I cannot kill the woman who stood where you are standing a moment ago. Matilde was there! She was alive; do you hear me? Alive and—ah!”

The exclamation fell from his lips as she suddenly leaned forward, her intense gaze fixed on Frederic's face.

“See! Ah, see! I prayed, and I have been answered. See!”

He turned. Frederic's eyes were open. He was looking up at them with a piteous appeal, an appeal for help, for life, for consciousness.

“He is not dead! Frederic, Frederic, my son——” Brood dropped to his knees and frantically clutched at the hand that lay stretched beside the limp figure. The pain-stricken eyes closed slowly.

Yvonne knelt beside Brood. He saw a slim, white hand go out and touch the pallid brow.

“I shall save your soul, James Brood,” a voice was saying, but it seemed far away. “He shall not die. Your poor, wretched soul may rest secure. I shall keep death away from him. You shall not have to pay for this; no, not for this. The bullet was meant for me. I owe my life to him, you shall owe his to me. But you have yet to pay a greater debt than this can ever become. He is your son. You owe another for his life, and you will never be out of her debt, not even in hell, James Brood!”

Slowly Frederic's eyes opened again. They wavered from one face to the other and there was in them the unsolvable mystery of divination. As the lids drooped once more, Brood's manner underwent a tremendous change. The stupefaction of horror and doubt fell away in a flash and he was again the clear-headed, indomitable man of action. The blood rushed back into his veins, his eyes flashed with the returning fire of hope, his voice was steady, sharp, commanding.

“The doctor!” he cried in Yvonne's ear, as his strong fingers went out to tear open the shirt-bosom. “Be quick! Send for Hodder; we must save him.” She did not move. He whirled upon her fiercely. “Do as I tell you! Are you so——”

“Dr Hodder is on the way now,” she said dully.

His hands ceased their operations as if checked by a sudden paralysis.

“On the way here?” he cried incredulously. “Why———”

“He is coming,” she said fiercely. “I sent for him. Don't stop now, be quick! You know what to do. Stanch the flow of blood. Do something, man! You have seen men with mortal wounds, and this man must be saved!”

He worked swiftly, deftly, for he did know what to do. He had worked over men before with wounds in their breasts, and he had seen them through the shadow of death. But he could not help thinking, as he now worked, that he was never known to miss a shilling at thirty paces.

She was speaking. Her voice was low, with a persistent note of accusation in it.

“It was an accident, do you understand? You did not shoot to kill him. The world shall never know the truth, unless he dies, and that is not to happen. You are safe. The law cannot touch you, for I shall never speak. This is between you and me. Do you understand?”

He glanced at her set, rigid face.

“Yes. It was an accident. And this is between you and me. We shall settle it later on. Now I see you as you are—as Yvonne. I—wonder———” His hand shook with a sudden spasm of indecision. He had again caught that baffling look in her dark eyes.

“Attend!” she cried, and he bent to the task again. “He is not going to die. It would be too cruel if he were to die now and miss all the joy of victory over you, his lifelong foe. He———”

The door opened behind them and they looked up to see the breathless Hindu. He came straight to the woman.

“He comes. Ranjab has obey. I have told him that the revolver was discharge accidentally, by myself, by the unhappy son of a dog, I. It is well. Ranjab is but a dog. He shall die to-day and his lips be sealed for ever. Have no fear. The dead shall be silent.” His voice trailed off into a whisper, for his eyes were looking into hers. “No,” he whispered, after a moment, “no; the dead are not silent. One who is dead has spoken to Ranjab.”

“Hush!” said the woman. Brood's hands were shaking again, shaking and uncertain. “The doctor? He comes?”

“Even now,” said the Hindu, turning toward the door.

Dr Hodder came blinking into the room. A gaping assistant from his office across the street followed close behind, carrying a box of instruments.

“Turn up the lights,” said the surgeon crisply. It seemed hours before the soft glow was at its full and the room bathed in its mellow light. All this time not a word was uttered. “Ah!” exclaimed Dr Hodder at last. “Now we'll see.”

He was kneeling beside Frederic an instant later.

“Bad!” he said after a single glance. “Wiley, get busy now. Clear that table, Ranjab. Water, quick, Wiley. Lively, Ranjab. Shove 'em off, don't waste time like that. Ah, now lend a hand, both of you. Easy! So!” Three strong, nerveless pairs of hands raised the inert figure.

“Hello! What's this?” The incomprehensible Hindu in his ruthless clearing of the table had left the revolver lying where Yvonne had placed it. “Good Lord, take it away! It's done enough damage already.” It was Wiley, the assistant, who picked it up gingerly and laid it on a chair near by. “Now, where's the butler? Send for an ambulance, and—you, Wiley, call up the hospital and say———”

“No!” came in Yvonne's husky, imperative voice. “No, not the hospital. He is not to be taken away.”

“But, madam, you———”

“I insist! It is not to be thought of, Dr Hodder. He must remain in this house. I will get his room ready for him. He is—to—stay—here!”

“Well, we'll see,” said the surprised surgeon, and forthwith put her out of his mind.

James Brood was standing stock-still and rigid in the centre of the room. He had not moved an inch from the position he had taken when the doctor pushed him aside in order to clear the way to the table. Yvonne came straight to him. The matter of half a yard separated them as she stopped and spoke to him, her voice so low that the bustling doctor could not have distinguished a word.

“You owe it to Frederic to allow Ranjab's story to stand. There is no one to dispute it. I command you to protect the good name of your son. That weapon was accidentally discharged by your servant, and you will have to swear to it, James Brood, if called upon to do so, for I shall swear to it, and Ranjab, too.”

“I shall conceal nothing,” he groaned. “Do you think I am a craven coward as well as a———”

“Nevertheless, you will do as I command. He is going to live. That is why I demand it of you. If he were to die—well, even then you would not be permitted to speak. I shall stand here beside you, James Brood, and if you utter one word to contradict Ranjab's story I shall shoot you down. Can you not see how desperately in earnest I am?” She reached over and caught up the revolver from the chair as she was speaking.

For a full minute they looked into each other's eyes, and he—the strong, invulnerable Brood—was the first to give way. The steely glitter faded before the swift rush of a new feeling that swept over him—an extraordinary feeling of tenderness toward this woman who fought him with something more than her own cause at stake.

“I understand. You are right. If he gets well, this beastly thing must never be known. We will leave it to him. If he chooses to tell the truth, then———”

“I have your promise—now?” she demanded intensely.

“Yes. Now go!” Involuntarily he straightened his tall figure and pointed toward the door.

“He is not to be removed from this house,” she insisted.

“Ten minutes ago you were suggesting a different———” he began sneeringly.

“The whole world has changed since then, James Brood,” she said, and her shoulders drooped. Almost instantly she recovered her poise. “I have a great deal to say to you later on.”

“Not a great deal,” he said meaningly.

He saw her flinch and was conscious of a curious pang, a poignant yet indefinable pang of remorse.

She went swiftly from the room. He looked for the revolver. It was gone. Somehow he found himself wondering if she had taken it away with her in the fear that he would turn it against himself in case——

“No powder stains,” he heard Hodder saying to his assistant. “Not a sign of 'em.”

“That's right,” said the assistant, shaking his head.

“Couldn't have been—no, of course not,” went on the first speaker in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Doesn't look that way,” agreed the assistant.

“Fired from some little distance, I'd say.”

“Fifteen or twenty feet, perhaps.”

It suddenly dawned upon Brood that they were talking of suicide.

“Good Heaven, Hodder, it—it wasn't that!” he cried hoarsely. “What right have you to doubt my word? I tell you I———”

“Your word, Jim? This is the first word you've spoken since I came into the room.”

“Is—is it a mortal wound?” broke from the other's lips.

“Can't tell. First aid now, that's the point. We'll get him downstairs in a few minutes. More light. I can't see a thing in this—hello! What's this? A photograph? Fell out of his pocket when I—oh, I see! Your wife. Sorry I got blood on it.” He laid the small bit of pasteboard on the table. “Wiley! See if you can get a mattress. We'll move him at once. Lively, my lad. He's alive, all right, Jim. Do our best. Looks bad. Poor kid. He's not had a very happy life of it, I'm afraid—I beg pardon!”

In considerable embarrassment he brought his comments to an end and bent lower to examine the small black hole in the left breast of his patient.

Frederic's lips moved. The doctor's ear caught the strangled whisper that issued.

“Curious,” he remarked, turning to Brood with something like awe in his eyes. “I'm sure he said 'Mother.' But he never knew his mother, did he?”