while to put him in the way of two thousand pounds--considering
everything. Promotion was slow in Bermuda ... dead men's shoes....

The tongue in Weldon's mouth asked, calmly enough, how he was to be
protected against further demands. The young man explained very
clearly. The president had managed thoroughly well: in a few days the
recent transaction would be a ripple under water. But during those few
days ... he smiled disagreeably.

The fire whistled in the grate; the bank was utterly still. They were
alone in it. In one second of time, years and the future itself
wheeled before Philip Weldon's sunken eyes. So the black drop _had_
lasted, after all, and would tint his life as long as that life lasted
on earth ... and longer? Anything was possible. Must the sordid drama
play itself eternally, through the years and countries, till the final
ripple hit the southern-most port of refuge? Would this young man sit
before a sea-coal fire in Gibraltar, one day, frozen, his life and
honour nipped at the root by the triumphant hound who had tracked down
his one fault? Before God, it was _his_ only one! He was white beside
some others who lived and died respected. Prove the contrary, any one!

_One, two! one, two! one, two!_ That watch. Either he was going mad
or it could be heard in the street outside, it shouted so. Who was he,
anyway--Deeping or himself? Who was that young man?

Suddenly his head cleared. He moistened his lips and leaned forward,
the watch crystal shivered in his grasp.

"And you are going----"

"To Gibraltar," said the young man briskly. "I am glad that you----"

"No," said Weldon thoughtfully, "I am afraid you are not going to
Gibraltar. You are going to die."

He pushed his hand back into his pocket and felt the precious hard
little object there. His finger clasped it, when a heavy blow sent him
reeling in his chair. A pain like a knife cut through his heart and he
fell heavily backward on his bent arm.

* * * * *

His eyes opened. He drew a deep breath. A tall, carved clock in the
corner struck, and a man, a lank, sandy man beside him, seemed to have
said something, for his voice was in the air.

"He must have had some papers--if there is anything wrong--good God,
Webb, what shall we do?"

This was a slender, foppish man, iron-grey. Weldon sprang to his feet,
pulling his right arm from behind him, wide, wide awake now. He was
free! He was