ooked about the room and, in a hoarse whisper, said, "Send the
others away--everybody--but her."

"O papa, papa!" exclaimed poor Louise, protestingly.

"Never mind, daughter," came the whispered answer from the bed. "Try to be
game, girl--game as your father. Take her away, Jim."

As the physician passed Mrs. Taine, who had thus far stood like a statue,
seemingly incapable of thought or feeling or movement, he said in a low
tone, "I will be just outside the door, madam; easily within call."

When only the woman was left in the room with her husband, the dying man
spoke again; "Come here. Stand where I can see you."

Mechanically, she obeyed; moving to a position near the foot of the bed.

After a moment's silence, during which he seemed to be rallying the very
last of his vital forces for the effort, he said, "Well--the game is
played--out. You think--you're the winner. You're--wrong--damn you--you're
wrong. I wasn't--so drunk to-night that--I couldn't see." His face twisted
in a hideous, malicious grin. "You--love--that artist fellow.
Your--interest in his art is--all rot. It's _him_ you want--and you--you
have been thinking--you'd get him--with my money--the same as I got you.
But you won't. You've--lost him already. I'm glad--you love him--damn
glad--because--I know that after--what he's seen of me--even if he didn't
love--that mountain--girl, he wouldn't wipe--his feet on you. You've
tortured me--you've mocked--and sneered and laughed--at me--in my
suffering--you fiend--and I've--tried my damnedest--to pay you back. What
I couldn't do--the man you love--will--do for me. You'll suffer--now in
earnest. You thought you'd be a--sure winner--as soon--as I was out
of--the game. But you've lost--you've lost--you've lost! I saw your love
for him--in your--face to-night--as I have seen--it every time--you two
were together. I saw his love--for the girl--too--and I--saw--that
you--saw it. I--I--wouldn't--wouldn't die--until I'd told you--that I
knew." He paused to gather his strength for the last evil effort of his
evil life.

The woman--who had stood, frozen with horror, her eyes fixed upon the face
of the dying man, as though under a dreadful spell--cowered before him,
livid with fear. Cringing, helpless--as though before some infernal
monster--she hid her face; while her husband, struggling for breath to
make her hear, called her every foul name he could master--derided her
with fiendish glee--mocked her, taunted her