red not refuse. The man had moved to a divan, he
reclined upon his back, lifted his feet; and Dale, pretending to laugh
it off as a bit of fun, took him by the heels.

Then he uttered a terrified cry--because he saw it was Barradine,
dead, battered, with glassy staring eyes. All the people rushed away
screaming, the lights went out, the music ceased: Dale was alone, at
dusk, in a rocky wilderness, still dragging the dead man by the heels.

And then he would wake--to find Mavis bending over him, to hear her
saying, "My dearest, you are sleeping on your back, and it is making
you dream." He clung to her desperately, muttering, "Quite right, Mav.
Don't let me dream. It's a fullish trick--dreaming."

Then he would settle himself to sleep again, thinking, "It is all no
use. I love my wife; I bless her for the generous way in which she has
risked all that money to give me a fresh start; I enjoy the work; I
believe I may succeed with the business--but I shall never know real
peace of mind. And sooner or later my crime will be brought home to
me. It is always so. I've read it in the papers a dozen times.
Murderers never get off altogether. Years and years pass; but at last
justice overtakes them."

Already, although he did not recognize it, had come remorse for the
wickedness of his deed. He had no regret for the fact itself, and not
the slightest pity for the victim. Mr. Barradine had got no more than
he deserved, the only proper adequate punishment for his offenses; but
Dale knew that, according to the tenets of all religions, God does not
allow private individuals to mete out punishment, however well
deserved--especially not the death penalty.

He resolutely revived his idea of the dead man as a thing unfit to
live--just a brute, without a man's healthy instincts--a foul
debauchee, ruining sweet and comely innocence whenever he could get at
it. Such a wretch would be executed by any sensible community. In new
countries they would lynch him as soon as they caught him--"A lot of
chaps like myself would ride off their farms, heft him up on the
nearest tree, and empty their revolvers into him. And it wouldn't be a
murder: it would be a rough and ready execution. Well, I did the job
by myself, without sharing the responsibility with my pals; and I
consider myself an executioner, not a murderer."

He could now always make the hate and horror return and be as strong
as they had ever been, and thus solidify the argument whereb