Part 11 (1/2)

Well, you've failed. I will not sanction your robbing my friends. I will not allow you to sell them any more of your high-priced rubbish, or permit you to cheat them at cards.”

Underwood listened in silence. He stood motionless, watching her flushed face as she heaped reproaches on him. She was practically p.r.o.nouncing his death sentence, yet he could not help thinking how pretty she looked. When she had finished he said nothing, but, going to his desk, he opened a small drawer and took out a revolver.

Alicia recoiled, frightened.

”What are you going to do?” she cried.

Underwood smiled bitterly.

”Oh, don't be afraid. I wouldn't do it while you are here. In spite of all you've said to me, I still think too much of you for that.”

Replacing the pistol in the drawer, he added: ”Alicia, if you desert me now, you'll be sorry to the day of your death.”

His visitor looked at him in silence. Then, contemptuously, she said:

”I don't believe you intend to carry out your threat. I should have known from the first that your object was to frighten me. The pistol display was highly theatrical, but it was only a bluff. You've no more idea of taking your life than I have of taking mine. I was foolish to come here. I might have spared myself the humiliation of this clandestine interview. Good night!”

She went toward the door. Underwood made no attempt to follow her. In a hard, strange voice, which he scarcely recognized as his own, he merely said:

”Is that all you have to say?”

”Yes,” replied Alicia, as she turned at the door. ”Let it be thoroughly understood that your presence at my house is not desired. If you force yourself upon me in any way, you must take the consequences.”

Underwood bowed, and was silent. She did not see the deathly pallor of his face. Opening the door of the apartment which led to the hall, she again turned.

”Tell me, before I go--you didn't mean what you said in your letter, did you?”

”I'll tell you nothing,” replied Underwood doggedly.

She tossed her head scornfully.

”I don't believe that a man who is coward enough to write a letter like this has the courage to carry out his threat.” Stuffing the letter back into her bag, she added: ”I should have thrown it in the waste-paper basket, but on second thoughts, I think I'll keep it. Good night.”

”Good night,” echoed Underwood mechanically.

He watched her go down the long hallway and disappear in the elevator.

Then, shutting the door, he came slowly back into the room and sat down at his desk. For ten minutes he sat there motionless, his head bent forward, every limb relaxed. There was deep silence, broken only by Howard's regular breathing and the loud ticking of the clock.

”It's all up,” he muttered to himself. ”It's no use battling against the tide. The strongest swimmer must go under some time. I've played my last card and I've lost. Death is better than going to jail. What good is life anyway without money? Just a moment's nerve and it will all be over.”

Opening the drawer in the desk, he took out the revolver again. He turned it over in his hand and regarded fearfully the polished surface of the instrument that bridged life and death. He had completely forgotten Howard's presence in the room. On the threshold of a terrible deed, his thoughts were leagues away. Like a man who is drowning, and close to death, he saw with surprising distinctness a kaleidoscopic view of his past life. He saw himself an innocent, impulsive school boy, the pride of a devoted mother, the happy home where he spent his childhood.

Then came the a.s.sociation with bad companions, the first step in wrongdoing, stealing out of a comrade's pocket in school, the death of his mother, leaving home--with downward progress until he gradually drifted into his present dishonest way of living. What was the good of regrets? He could not recall his mother to life. He could never rehabilitate himself among decent men and women. The world had suddenly become too small for him. He must go, and quickly.

Fingering the pistol nervously, he sat before the mirror and placed it against his temple. The cold steel gave him a sudden shock. He wondered if it would hurt, and if there would be instant oblivion. The glare of the electric light in the room disconcerted him. It occurred to him that it would be easier in the dark. Reaching out his arm, he turned the electric b.u.t.ton, and the room was immediately plunged into darkness, except for the moonlight which entered through the windows, imparting a ghostly aspect to the scene. On the other side of the room, behind the screen, a red glow from the open fire fell on the sleeping form of Howard Jeffries.

Slowly, deliberately, Underwood raised the pistol to his temple and fired.

CHAPTER VIII.

”h.e.l.lo! What's that?”