ubject, and talk of other things."

It was midnight when they separated. Barclay brought out sheets and
blankets for the divan, produced pajamas for his guest, put the bath at
his disposal, and mixed a strong dose of bromide for him to take upon
retiring.

Half an hour later, when he reentered the drawing-room to see whether
Cavendish was in need of anything further, he found him standing by the
table in his pajamas, trembling, wide-eyed, and very pale.

"What is it?" he asked. "Are you ill?"

"No," answered Cavendish, striving in vain to control the trembling of
his lips, "only damnably nervous. Could you--could you give me a drop of
brandy, Barclay?"

"Certainly not!" said the Lieutenant-Governor. "Pull yourself together,
man! There's your bromide. Take that. It's better than a thousand
brandies."

Cavendish turned, lifted the glass, spilling a little as he did so, and
swallowed the sedative at a gulp. Then he stretched himself upon the
divan and drew the covers close up about his chin. Presently, from the
bedroom, Barclay heard him breathing deeply and regularly, and turning
on his side, fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

He awoke with a start, as the dawn was showing gray through the chinks
of his window curtains, with a vague, uneasy sense of something wrong,
and lay listening, every nerve strained taut. From the adjoining room
came the sound of Cavendish's breathing, but now it was more raucous,
more like groan following groan. The Lieutenant-Governor strove in vain
to put off the foreboding which lay heavy upon him, until, finally,
unable to resist the impulse, he rose, slid his feet into his slippers,
and going noiselessly into the drawing-room, stepped to the windows and
put the curtains softly aside. What first met his eye as he turned was
the door of his little wine-closet in the wall. It was standing wide
open, and about the lock the wood was hacked and hewed away in great
splinters. On a chair near by lay a rough knife with the blade open and
a sliver of wood yet sticking to the point. Then he looked toward the
divan. Cavendish was lying face down upon it, outside the blankets,
with his head lolling sharply over the edge. His left arm was extended
full length toward the ground, where his fingers just touched a bottle
of French absinthe, overturned upon its side, and uncorked, with the
thick, gummy liquid spread from its mouth in a circular pool on the
waxed floor.

VI

McGRATH LAUGHS