Hundreds of years, they've traveled all
over the world, and been lost, and stolen, and hidden. My father's is
lost now, somewhere. Had it come back home to rest, my own life might
have been different. I say, Cowles, couldn't you do that for me? We've
nearly always had some last friend that would--we Gordons."

"I would do nothing for you as a favor," I answered.

"Then do it because it is right. I'd rather it should be you. You've a
wrist like steel, and a mind like steel when you set yourself to do a
thing."

"I say, old man," he went on, a trifle weary now, "you've won. I'm jolly
well accounted for, and it was fair. I hope they'll not bag you when you
try to get out of this. But won't you promise what I've asked? Won't you
promise?"

It is not for me to say whether or not I made a promise to Gordon Orme,
or to say whether or not things mediaeval or occult belong with us
to-day. Neither do I expect many to believe the strange truth about
Gordon Orme. I only say it is hard to deny those about to die.

"Orme," I said, "I wish you had laid out your life differently. You are
a wonderful man."

"The great games," he smiled--"sport, love, war!" Then his face
saddened. "I say, have you kept your other promise to me?" he asked.
"Did you marry that girl--what was her name--Miss Sheraton?"

"Miss Sheraton is dead."

"Married?" he asked.

"No. She died within two months after the night I caught you in the
yard. I should have killed you then, Orme."

He nodded. "Yes, but at least I showed some sort of remorse--the first
time, I think. Not a bad sort, that girl, but madly jealous. Fighting
blood, I imagine, in that family!"

"Yes," I said, "her father and brother and I, all three, swore the same
oath."

"The same spirit was in the girl," he said, nodding again.
"Revenge--that was what she wanted. That's why it all happened. It was
what _I_ wanted, too! You blocked me with the only woman--"

"Do not speak her name," I said to him, quietly. "The nails on your
fingers are growing blue, Orme. Go with some sort of squaring of your
own accounts. Try to think."

He shrugged a shoulder. "My Swami said we do not die--we only change
worlds or forms. What! I, Gordon Orme, to be blotted out--to lose my
mind and soul and body and senses--not to be able to _enjoy_. No,
Cowles, somewhere there are other worlds, with women in them. I do not
die--I transfer." But sweat stood on his forehead.

"As to going, no ways are better tha