at mad act do you
contemplate?"

"Nothing--nothing. Believe me, nothing. I only want the refreshing
breeze, that's all. I'm tired--worn out."

"Yes, you are truly tired," I said.

"What do you mean?" he cried.

"Your work."

"Work--what work?--who works?"

"Come with me," I said.

[Illustration: "HE SHRIEKED THE MURDERED MAN'S NAME."]

Like a child he followed me to his studio. I opened the door. The
portrait of Huntingdon rested on the easel. He saw it. The eyes he had
painted pierced him to the heart, and the lips almost moved in
accusation. He shrieked the murdered man's name and fell to the ground.
He was dead!

* * * * *

The following letter was found on Wilfred Colensoe's dressing-table:--

"What good is life to me?--what good am I for life? Then why live? A
guilty conscience only means a living death. You have been very good to
me--both you and your wife. But I am going to end it all. Let me
confess. It will bring me some small comfort even now in the dying hour
I have given to myself. You remember poor Huntingdon? I shot that
man--murdered him. Listen and then 'Good-bye.' Huntingdon and I were
friendly rivals. You remember my picture of 'The Duel'? Yes. One day I
visited Huntingdon. That same morning I had been making some studies of
a revolver in the act of being discharged. I had it in my pocket when I
went to see Huntingdon, and one chamber remained loaded. I walked
straight into his studio. As I entered Huntingdon had a pistol in his
hand pointed immediately towards me and--fired. In an instant my
revolver was in my grasp and a bullet had entered his heart. That is the
simple history of the crime. I fled from the place and none knew. Thank
God this is written. A life for a life. I am passing through death all
the day, and at night I do not cease to die. You do not know what that
means. The guilty do. Angels of darkness play with you all day long and
at night watch over you--watch over you that you do not escape, that
they may gambol with you on the morrow. They are making merry now. They
have got what they want--_Me_. Yes, a life for a life. I will deliver my
own up. Good-bye."

_The Queer Side of Things._

[Illustration: A USE FOR GENIUS]

Young Bansted Downs had finally arrived home from school; the cabman had
placed his box in the front hall, and young D. was in the act of hanging
up his hat on the stand, when the elder Bansted Downs, his father,