d the window first--at a
bound--and stood before it. Then suddenly a hideous expression came into
his eyes until out of them shone the horror-worship that had obsessed
his soul; and the maniac's cunning for draining his greed of vengeance
to its dregs.

He had jostled aside the blank book containing the diary and seen the
weapon, which he calmly slipped into his pocket. Then he raised the
window as far as it would go.

"This is the twentieth floor," he commented with a ghastly significance.
"I know because I walked up. I didn't want to be stopped--too soon. It
won't take you so long to get down." As he spoke he jerked his head
toward the raised blind and sash. "It's rather a symbolical finish for
you, Burton--you must confess as much--an idol hurled down from his high
place."

One quality Hamilton Burton possessed. If he was to die he would leave
no satisfaction of final cowardice to comfort his assassin's
self-destruction. He would attack--but a sudden thought stayed him.

"If we are to have a death struggle here," he asked with a strange
composure, "will you give me a moment--for a matter that had no bearing
on your determination?"

Haswell yet again shook his head with his executioner's smile as he
sardonically inquired, "Time to get another gun?"

"No. To tear up a note to the coroner--unless you will be good enough to
do it for me. If I am not to kill myself there is no advantage in an
ante-mortem confession!"

"What difference does it make? To me it seems trivial."

"Just this--that my family will save my insurance out of the wreck."

"And Paul may once more sing golden songs to the wives of other men--not
that I so much resent Paul. Without you he would have been harmless
enough--but society's safer with him poor."

Hamilton Burton had caught a rift in the clouds and with this denial his
calmness deserted him for passion. The old family love, strong even
though he had himself so violated it, burst into flame in his heart.
Once more he would fight for those he was leaving. Why had he never
thought of the window himself? That might logically seem accidental, yet
his brain had not served him well of late. It had been clouded and
unresourceful--and he had invented no method of masking the authorship
of his death. His enemy had suggested it--but first there must be a
moment to destroy the confession which would rob his mother of the one
asset which might be saved to her. With an oath he leaped upon his
vi