n now."

"You are right, Warren. There is one soul more whom you have not
affected. It is too bad that you were not killed in the Albanian
revolution,--then you would have been on record as a hero instead of the
vilest scoundrel in Christendom."

Had the death-dealing current of the electric chair been turned upon
Warren he could not have been more startled, as he sprang up. His
pallid face seemed to turn a sickly green, as his dark eyes opened in
galvanized amazement.

"Albanian--what do you mean? I never saw Albania!"

"You will never see it again. You will never see Budapesth again,
either," was the menacing continuation of the criminologist's methodical
speech. "But a very old lady, the Countess Laschlas, will see the
accounts of her son's wretched death, in the New York papers which will
be sent to her, in care of the American consul!"

It was merely a deductive guess: but the shot struck the center of
the bull's-eye. Warren, alias Count Laschlas, staggered back, and his
nervous fingers touched the chilling surface of the stone wall. He
dropped his eyes, and then strove to regain his nonchalance. It was a
pitiable failure.

"Just as you have dealt to the children of others, so will you deal
with your own mother, the last of a distinguished line of aristocrats.
I swear, by the memory of my own dead parents, that I will avenge the
misery you have given to the innocent. The good Book says, the sins of
the fathers shall be visited upon the children even unto the third and
the fourth generation. But life to-day has taught me that the sins of
the children are visited upon the fathers and the mothers--especially,
the sweet, loving, trusting mothers! As I value my honor, Reginald
Warren, or Count Rozi, I will see to it that your mother shall know
every detail of the whole miserable career of her son. That is my answer
to your alleged confession. If there is a hereafter, from which you may
observe that which follows your death, you will be able to see through
eternity the earthly punishment which has been visited upon the one
person whom you love and respect."

The criminal's ashen face was buried in his hands.

Great sobs emanated from his white lips, as his shoulders heaved in a
paroxysm.

Shirley had struck the Achilles tendon--the hardest wretch in the world
had one, as he knew!

"Oh--oh--" he moaned, "the poor little mutter. She has forgiven so much,
suffered so much. You can't do it. You won't do it!" He