ening the door of the apartment which led to the hall, she
again turned.

"Tell me, before I go--you didn't mean what you said in your letter, did
you?"

"I'll tell you nothing," replied Underwood doggedly.

She tossed her head scornfully.

"I don't believe that a man who is coward enough to write a letter like
this has the courage to carry out his threat." Stuffing the letter back
into her bag, she added: "I should have thrown it in the waste-paper
basket, but on second thoughts, I think I'll keep it. Good night."

"Good night," echoed Underwood mechanically.

He watched her go down the long hallway and disappear in the elevator.
Then, shutting the door, he came slowly back into the room and sat down
at his desk. For ten minutes he sat there motionless, his head bent
forward, every limb relaxed. There was deep silence, broken only by
Howard's regular breathing and the loud ticking of the clock.

"It's all up," he muttered to himself. "It's no use battling against the
tide. The strongest swimmer must go under some time. I've played my last
card and I've lost. Death is better than going to jail. What good is
life anyway without money? Just a moment's nerve and it will all be
over."

Opening the drawer in the desk, he took out the revolver again. He
turned it over in his hand and regarded fearfully the polished surface
of the instrument that bridged life and death. He had completely
forgotten Howard's presence in the room. On the threshold of a terrible
deed, his thoughts were leagues away. Like a man who is drowning, and
close to death, he saw with surprising distinctness a kaleidoscopic view
of his past life. He saw himself an innocent, impulsive school boy, the
pride of a devoted mother, the happy home where he spent his childhood.
Then came the association with bad companions, the first step in
wrongdoing, stealing out of a comrade's pocket in school, the death of
his mother, leaving home--with downward progress until he gradually
drifted into his present dishonest way of living. What was the good of
regrets? He could not recall his mother to life. He could never
rehabilitate himself among decent men and women. The world had suddenly
become too small for him. He must go, and quickly.

Fingering the pistol nervously, he sat before the mirror and placed it
against his temple. The cold steel gave him a sudden shock. He wondered
if it would hurt, and if there would be instant oblivion. The glare of
the electric