Gloria, in which he had no part, or
share, or right. He laid his hand upon the pile of letters, and looked
at the small fire to see whether it were burning well. Under his hand he
felt something hard inside the uppermost envelope. His fate was upon
him--the fate he had so often defied to do its worst, since all that he
had was dead and was his forever.

Without another thought, he took from the envelope the letter it
contained, and the hard thing which was inside the letter. He held it a
moment in his hand, and it flamed in the beam of sunlight that fell
across the end of the table, and dazzled him. Then he realized what it
was. It was Gloria's wedding ring, and twisted round and round it and in
and out of it was a lock of her red auburn hair, serpent-like, flaming
in the sunshine, with a hundred little tongues that waved and moved
softly under his breath.

An icy chill smote him in the neck, and his strong limbs shook to his
feet as he laid the thing down upon the corner of the table. There was a
fearful fascination in it. The red gold hairs stirred and moved in the
sunlight still, even when he no longer breathed upon them. It was her
hair, and it seemed alive.

In his other hand he still held the letter. Fate had him now, and would
not let him go while he could feel. Again and again the cruel chill
smote him in the back. He opened the doubled sheet, and saw the date and
the name of the place,--Subiaco,--and the first words--'Heart of my
heart, this is my last cry to you'--and it was to Angelo Reanda.

Rigid and feeling as though great icy hands were drawing him up by the
neck from the ground, he stood still and read every word, with all the
message of loathing and abject fear and horror of his touch, which every
word brought him, from the dead, through the other dead.

Slowly, regularly, without wavering, moved by a power not his own, his
hands took the other letters and opened them, and his eyes read all the
words, from the last to the first. One by one the sheets fell upon the
table, and all alone in the midst the lock of red auburn hair sent up
its little lambent flame in the sunshine.

Paul Griggs stood upright, stark with the stress of rending soul and
breaking heart.

As he stood there, he was aware of a man in black beside him, like
himself, ghastly to see, with shadows and fires for eyes, and thin,
parted lips that showed wolfish teeth, strong, stern, with iron hands.

"You are dead," said his own vo