to move you; that you intend to exact your revenge
by--denouncing me!"

Falconer nodded coolly.

"And you think that I could endure to live under such a threat, to walk
about with the sword of Damocles over my head? You ought to know me
better, Falconer. I will not live to endure the shame you can inflict
on me, I will not live to tempt you by the sight of me to take your
revenge. I shall die to-night."

Falconer eyed him intently, and carefully selected a fresh cigar. When
he had as carefully lit it, he said callously:

"That's your business, of course. I shouldn't venture to interfere with
any plan of that kind. So you'd sneak out of it, eh, Orme? Sneak out of
it, and leave that young fellow to bear the brunt? Well, I'm sorry for
him! He seems the right sort--deuced good-looking and high-class--yes,
I'm d----d sorry for him!"

Once again Sir Stephen's lips twitched and the big drops of sweat stood
on his brow. He stood for a minute looking from right to left like a
hunted animal at bay--then with something between a groan and a cry of
savagery, he spring towards Falconer with his hands outstretched and
making for his tormentor's throat.

Before he could sweep the table aside and get at him, Falconer whipped
a revolver from his pocket and aimed it at Sir Stephen.

"You fool!" he said in his harsh, grating voice, "did you think I was
such an idiot as to trust myself alone with you unarmed? Did you think
I'd forgotten what sort of man you were, or imagined that you'd so
changed that I could trust you? Bah! Sit down! Stand back, or, by
Heaven, I'll shoot you as I would a dog!"

Sir Stephen shrank back, his hand to his heart, his eyes distended, his
face livid as if he were choking and sank into a chair. Falconer
returned the revolver into his pocket, and with his foot pushed the
inlaid Oriental table towards his host and victim.

"There! Take some brandy! You're too old to play these tricks! That
heart of yours was never worth much in the old days, and I daresay it's
still more groggy. Besides, we're not in a mining camp or the backwoods
now." He sneered. "We're in Sir Stephen Orme's palatial villa on Lake
Bryndermere."

Sir Stephen stretched out his hand and felt for the decanter, as if he
were suddenly blind and could not see it, and poured himself out some
brandy. Falconer watched him narrowly, critically.

"Better? Look here, Orme, take my advice and keep a guard on your
emotions: you can't afford to ha