eed with
me," he added hastily, and Anstice's face cleared.

"Thanks, Carey." He held out his hand, and Carey's transparent, fingers
clasped it with a strength which would have been surprising to one who
did not know the indomitable spirit which dwelt in the wasted frame.
"You are a true friend, and your friendship deserves some return.
Unfortunately the only return I can make is to tell you the miserable
story which is perverted by the anonymous writer into something less
creditable than--I hope--you will judge it to be."

He sprang up suddenly and leaned against the mantelpiece, hands in
pockets as usual; and in that position, looking down on his friend as he
sat in his capacious chair, he outlined once again the happenings of
that bygone Indian dawn.

He related the affair shortly--it was not a subject on which he cared to
dwell; and the clergyman listened thoughtfully, his sunken eyes fixed on
the pale face beneath the clustering black hair with an intentness of
regard which would have disturbed anyone less engrossed than the
narrator of the sad little story.

When he had finished Anstice moved abruptly.

"Well, that's the truth--and now you see that those statements made
about me are the most insidious form of lying--with a good foundation of
half-truths. That's what makes it so infernally hard to refute them."

"I see." Carey loaned forward thoughtfully, shielding his face from the
flames with his thin hands. "It is a pitiful story, Anstice; and if you
will allow me to say so I admire and respect a man who can live down the
memory of a tragedy as you have done."

"I have lived it down--yes," said Anstice, rather grimly. "But it's been
jolly hard at times not to throw up the sponge. Several people have
suggested--discreetly--that suicide is quite justifiable in cases of
this sort, but----"

"Suicide is _never_ justifiable." The clergyman's delicate features
stiffened. "From the days of Judas Iscariot--the most notorious suicide
in the history of the world, I suppose--it has been the refuge of the
coward, the ingrate, the weak-minded. People talk of the pluck required
to enable a man to take his own life. What pluck is there in
deliberately turning one's back on the problems one hasn't the courage,
or the patience, to solve? Believe me, suicide--self-murder--is an
unthinkable resource to a really brave man."

He stopped; but Anstice made no reply, though a rather cynical smile
played about his lips; and p