doctor passed in and out
and the sickening odour of medicines filled the air. A group of
newspaper reporters stood at the foot of the grand stairway, discussing
in subdued whispers his chances of life and the probable effect of his
death on the market. The last barrier was down and through the
confusion and panic Stuart could feel the chill of the silently
approaching presence. Slowly, remorselessly, the white messenger of
Eternity was drawing near.

Nan stood shivering at the head of the stairs, pale, dishevelled, her
dark eyes wide and staring with a new expression of terror in their
depths.

"How is he, Nan?"

She stared at him a moment without seeming to understand until Stuart
repeated his question.

"Worse," she stammered through chattering teeth. "The doctors say he
can't possibly live. He has been calling for me for the last hour.
I--can't--go!"

"Why?"

"I'm afraid!"

He took her hand. It was cold and he felt a tremour run through her
body at his touch.

"Come, come, Nan, you're not a silly child, but a woman who has passed
through scenes in life that held tragedies darker than death!"

"I can't help it; I'm afraid," she cried, shivering and drawing closer.

"Come, drive out of your thoughts the old foolish shadows that make the
end of life a horror. To me dying has come to mean the breaking of
bars. You taught me this the day you killed my soul."

"Hush, Jim!"

"It's true, don't be foolish," he whispered. "The day you killed me,
long ago, I was lonely and afraid at first, and then I saw that death
is only the gray mystery of the dawn. Come, I'm ashamed of you. If Cal
is calling, go to him at once. You must see him."

"I can't! Tell him that I'm ill."

"I won't lie to him in such an hour."

Shivering in silence she led Stuart to the door of Bivens's room and
fled to her own.

On another magnificent bed of gleaming ebony inlaid with rows of opals,
thousands of opals, Stuart found the little shrivelled form. The
swarthy face was white and drawn, the hard thin lips fallen back from
two rows of smooth teeth in pitiful, fevered weakness. He was trying to
talk to the pastor of his church, while the fashionable clergymen bent
over him with an expression of helpless misery, now and then wiping the
perspiration from his sleek, well-fed neck.

"I want you to go into that next room and pray," the little man gasped.
"I haven't done anything very good or great yet, but I have plans,
great plans! Tel