Stafford; and I don't wonder; but it's all right.... You've been
a good, good friend to us both," he added. "I wish Jasmine might know
how good a friend you've been. But never mind. We'll pay the debt
sometime, somehow, she and I. When shall I see you again?"

At that moment a clear voice rang out cheerily in the distance.
"Rudyard--where are you, Ruddy?" it called.

A light broke over Byng's haggard face. "Not yet?" he asked Stafford.

"No, not yet," was the reply, and Byng was pushed through the open door
into the street.

"Ruddy--where are you, Ruddy?" sang the voice like a morning song.

Then there was silence, save for the music in the room beyond the
little room where the two men had sat a few moments ago.

The music was still poured forth, but the tune was changed. Now it was
"Pagliacci"--that wonderful passage where the injured husband pours out
his soul in agony.

Stafford closed the doors of the little room where he and Byng had sat,
and stood an instant listening to the music. He shuddered as the
passionate notes swept over his senses. In this music was the note of
the character of the man who played--sensuous emotion, sensual delight.
There are men who by nature are as the daughters of the night, primary
prostitutes, with no minds, no moral sense; only a sensuous
organization which has a gift of shallow beauty, while the life is
never deep enough for tears nor high enough for real joy.

In Stafford's pocket was the revolver which Byng had given him. He took
it out, and as he did so, a flush swept over his face, and every nerve
of his body tingled.

"That way out?" he thought. "How easy--and how selfish.... If one's
life only concerned oneself.... But it's only partly one's own from
first to last." ... Then his thoughts turned again to the man who was
playing "Pagliacci." "I have a greater right to do it than Byng, and
I'd have a greater joy in doing it; but whatever he is, it is not all
his fault." Again he shuddered. "No man makes love like that to a woman
unless she lets him, ... until she lets him." Then he looked at the
fire where the cruel testimony had shrivelled into smoke. "If it had
been read to a jury ... Ah, my God! How many he must have written her
like that ... How often...."

With an effort he pulled himself together. "What does it matter now!
All things have come to an end for me. There is only one way. My letter
to her showed it. But this must be settled first. Then to see her for