you, as a man, ought to have had enough common-sense to
talk me out of my intention."

"I should like to know what man is able to talk an idea out of the
head of a woman."

"Do not speak this way, George; it is worse than frivolous. Summon all
your courage and energy and let us see what can be done. There must be
a remedy."

"There is!" retorted Borgert, throwing a loaded revolver on the crazy
table.

A tremor shot through the woman, and for a moment she leaned against
the wall as if ready to swoon, while her wide-opened eyes stared with
fear at the little instrument, the glittering steel of which
reflected the glowing embers in the grate.

"By all that is sacred," her voice came hysterically, "are you out of
your senses!"

"On the contrary," replied Borgert, coolly; "it is the only way out of
all our difficulties, and it is not the first time I have had the
thought. Is it not better to put an end to this dog's life than to die
by inches in penury and distress?"

Frau Leimann stepped musingly towards the grate, as if its warmth were
needed to drive the thought of approaching death out of her head and
to pour new life into her trembling limbs. Her gaze hung fixedly on a
faded engraving which was over the mantel, and which represented a
banquet held by one of the ancient English kings. With glassy eyes she
stared at this picture representing the joys of living. She did not
notice that Borgert had followed her with his feline step.

The report of his pistol was heard, quick and sharp, and with a dying
moan the woman sank to her knees. Her left hand felt for the warming
flame, as if searching for its aid, and the tiny bluish tongues of
fire wavered in their reflection on the surface of this white, plump
hand from which a rill of life-blood was slowly running, drop by drop,
into the ashes of the grate. For a moment only her slayer gazed
terror-stricken at the lifeless body; then he pointed the weapon at
himself, and a second shot put an end to his existence. Death squared
with his mighty hand all the guilt and all the debts he had contracted
during his riotous life.

When the two corpses, four days later, were carted to the cemetery of
Bagneux, the Potter's Field of Paris, and there consigned to the
common grave of the destitute, nobody knew and nobody cared who these
two unknown strangers had been. Nobody suspected the drama of their
lives or the sin which had hurried them to death.

THE END.

En