e lung has been pierced. A little time now,
and--I can do nothing more."

Mr. Caryll nodded in silence, his face drawn with pain. With a gesture
he dismissed the doctor, who went out with Bentley.

When the valet returned, Mr. Caryll was on his knees beside the bed, Sir
Richard's hand in his, and Sir Richard was speaking in a feeble, hoarse
voice--gasping and coughing at intervals.

"Don't--don't grieve, Justin," he was saying. "I am an old man. My
time must have been very near. I--I am glad that it is thus. It is much
better than if they had taken me. They'd ha' shown me no mercy. 'Tis
swifter thus, and--and easier."

Silently Justin wrung the hand he held.

"You'll miss me a little, Justin," the old man resumed presently. "We
have been good friends, lad--good friends for thirty years."

"Father!" Justin cried, a sob in his voice.

Sir Richard smiled. "I would I were your father in more than name,
Justin. Hast been a good son to me--no son could have been more than
you."

Bentley drew nigh with a long glass containing a cordial the doctor had
advised. Sir Richard drank avidly, and sighed content when he returned
the glass. "How long yet, Justin?" he inquired.

"Not long, father," was the gloomy answer.

"It is well. I am content. I am happy, Justin. Believe me, I am happy.
What has my life been? Dissipated in the pursuit of a phantom." He
spoke musingly, critically calm, as one who already upon the brink of
dissolution takes already but an impersonal interest in the course he
has run in life.

Judging so, his judgment was clearer than it had yet been; it grew sane,
and was freed at last from the hackles of fanaticism; and there was
something that he saw in its true proportions. He sighed heavily.

"This is a judgment upon me," he said presently. He turned his great
eyes full upon Justin, and their dance was infinitely wistful. "Do you
remember, Justin, that night at your lodging--that first night on which
we talked here in London of the thing you were come to do--the thing to
which I urged you? Do you recall how you upbraided me for having set you
a task that was unworthy and revolting?"

"I remember," answered Justin, with an inward shudder, fearful of what
might follow.

"Oh, you were right, Justin; right, and I was entirely wrong--wickedly
wrong. I should have left vengeance to God. He is wreaking it.
Ostermore's whole life has been a punishment; his end will be a
punishment. I understand it now. W