The instant the door had shut behind Mortimer, Maddison plucked the scorching papers from the fire; they had by sheer chance fallen on a mass of black coals out of reach of the flames. They were hot and crackled in his fingers as he opened them. Then he sat down, and leaning forward read them by the dancing firelight. They contained a cold, bloodless account of all that Mrs. Harding knew of Marian, and by their very lifelessness carried conviction. It was not without a struggle, however, that he allowed himself to believe the accusations brought against her; for long his heart refused to be subservient to his reason.

He sat motionless and intent; the fire waned and the room grew darker and darker until at length there was only the glow of dying embers left in the grate; the papers had fallen to the floor unheeded; his hands lay limp and his head hung heavily. His eyes stared blankly; he saw nothing, felt nothing, was numb, crushed, stricken.

The striking of the clock roused him. There were hours still before the starting of the first train for London. Should he go there? To what end? He knew that what he had been told was true. What was the use of seeing her? She would only laugh at him. It was nothing to her; it was the shattering of life to him. God! How greatly he had loved her, did love her still. How he had trusted her, believing that she greatly loved him. How easily she had played with him; all this pretense of separation for his welfare, the reality being that she wished to be free to follow her lusts. Could such a woman be such a mere beast? Why, yes, it was only an old tale retold; no new thing in it; the devouring woman, the hoodwinked man. There was nothing to be done. No hope, no hope.

Once again her face came vividly before him: its splendid oval, the deep eyes, the glory of her hair, the half-parted lips, with a little smile hovering round them—how lovely he had often seen her, and yet she was a mere beast, who had sold herself to him and was selling herself to others.

But nothing that she had done or would do could kill his love for her. A dry, choking sob broke from him; he staggered, drunk with misery, across the room, pulled aside the curtains and looked out on the cold, moonlit night. Was there nothing to be done? No smallest ray of hope? No hope, no hope.

He lit a lamp and set it on a table before the easel on which stood “The Rebel.” Yes, there she sat, as she had been when first the desire came to him to have her for his own. His own! His shout of laughter filled the room. His! Any man’s who cared to pay her price. Just a mere beast, no more. And yet, there she sat, the beautiful rebel who had caught him body and soul. He picked a dagger off the wall and slashed the canvas to tatters; that lie at least was dead. He looked at the white blade as if there ought to be blood upon it.

He had killed that lie; it was agony as if he had killed part of himself. But life was the agony now for him. She had taken from him everything that made the world worth having; killed his art, killed his love. There was no hope, no hope.

He looked again at the white blade as if there ought to be blood upon it.

Mortimer woke early, roused by Mrs. Witchout knocking at the house door. Wrapping himself in his dressing gown he went down and let her in, briefly answering her exclamations of surprise at seeing him there.

He wondered why Maddison had not heard her. He listened at the studio door, there was no sound within. He knocked—there was no reply.

The dead do not answer the living.

Before the easel on which stood the tattered remnants of “The Rebel” Maddison lay dead.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.