cabinet at the other side
of the room, which he unlocked; from it he took a glass and a bottle.
With these he returned to his place before the fire and poured himself a
stiff drink.

"I was mad!" he said with quivering lips. "Mad!" he repeated, and again
he passed his shaking hand across his eyes. Once more he filled his
glass and emptied it, for the potent stuff gave him a certain kind of
courage. Placing the bottle and glass on the table at his elbow, he
resumed his seat.

The bottle was almost empty when, half an hour later, he heard the house
door open and close. It was Evelyn. Presently she came into the room,
still dressed as if for the street.

"Why, what's the matter, Marsh?" she asked in surprise.

"Matter? Nothing," he said shortly.

She glanced at the bottle and then at her husband.

"Aren't you well?" she demanded.

"I'm all right."

"I hope you aren't going to start that now!" and she nodded toward the
bottle.

He made an impatient gesture.

"Marshall, I am going to speak to the judge; perhaps if he knew he could
do or say something; I am not going to bear this burden alone any
longer!"

"Oh, what's the use of beginning that; can't you see I'm done up?" he
said petulantly.

"I don't wonder; the way you live is enough to do any one up, as you
call it; it's intolerable!" she cried.

"What does it matter to you?"

"It makes a brute of you; it's killing you!"

"The sooner the better," he said.

"For you, perhaps; but what about me?"

"Don't you ever think of any one but yourself?" he sneered.

"Is that the way it impresses you?" she asked coldly.

She slipped into the chair opposite him and began slowly to draw off her
gloves. Langham was silent for a minute or two; he gazed intently at her
and by degrees the hard steely glitter faded from his heavy bloodshot
eyes. Fascinated, his glance dwelt upon her; nothing of her fresh beauty
was lost on him; the smooth curve of her soft white throat, the alluring
charm of her warm sensuous lips, the tiny dimple that came and went when
she smiled, the graceful pliant lines of her figure, the rare poise
of her small head--his glance observed all. For better or for worse he
loved her with whatever of the man there was in him; he might hate her
in some sudden burst of fierce anger because of her shallowness, her
greed, her utter selfishness; but he loved her always, he could never be
wholly free from the spell her beauty had cast over him.

[Illust