inst a wall. He felt of it
gratefully. A deep instinctive need was supplied by the feeling of
something solid at his back.

"Take your hands off him," said the principal voice.

Evan was freed, but he knew they still stood close beside him. The
voice went on peremptorily. "Stand still if you don't want to be
pinned against the wall like an insect."

"Unbind my eyes!" cried Evan. "Let me see what's coming to me."

The voice replied in its grim drawl: "Sorry, but we can't let you take
mental pictures of us even to the other side."

"You're afraid to face me, you cowards!"

"Maybe. If you want to send any messages I'll transmit them."

Evan snatched at the chance. "I'd like to send a letter."

"All right." There was a pause while the speaker presumably found
pencil and paper. "Go ahead."

Evan dictated Charley Straiker's address. "Dear Charl: I have cut
loose. I have taken to the trail. You will not see me again. I leave
everything I have in my room to you. It will not make you rich. With
one exception. I want to send my least-bad picture to a friend. It's
the one I call 'Green and Gold,' the view of the Square from my window
in the morning light. There's a little frame that fits it. Write on
the back of it--write--Oh, don't write anything. Wrap it up and
address it to Miss Corinna Playfair. Take it to the steamboat
_Ernestina_ which will be lying at the pier foot of East Twentieth
street on Saturday morning up to Nine-Thirty. Be good, old son.
Here's how. Evan."

"Are you ready?" demanded the harsh voice unexpectedly close.

"Shoot and be damned to you!" said Evan.

He felt a little rim of cold steel pressed against his temple. With
that touch all Evan's agony rolled away. After all, what was life but
a jest? Thank God! he was not a coward!

The other man was still speaking--Good God would he never have
done!--"I will give you the word." Then he began to count: "One, two,
three----!"

Evan cried gaily: "So long, all!"

"Fire!"

There was a deafening crash. Everything went from him.

CHAPTER XVI

BACK TO EARTH

Like a thin, torn wrack of cloud scurrying across the night sky; like
music so far away that the instrument and the air were alike
unrecognisable; like an underexposed photograph; like the kiss of
wind--such were Evan's vague impressions. "What existence is this?" he
asked himself. Consciousness was sweet and he was afraid to question
it for fear of slipp