can be produced at any time.

"Respectfully submitted,

"C. Miles.

"New York, March --, 1883."

CHAPTER XIV

THE DEATH OF WINTERS

Let me now pass quickly on with my tale over the few succeeding hours
which witnessed its final scenes. What remains to be told is as well
told shortly and I have no wish to linger over it.

It was the next morning, and I again sat in my office, when the shrill
voice of the office boy interrupted my bitter reflections.

"Mr. Littell to see you, sir," it said.

"Show him in," I answered mechanically. I had been thinking of him and
accepted the announcement as a matter of course, though I had no reason
to expect him at that moment. Less than a day had elapsed since I had
read the report of Miles and I had now to confront Littell. There had
been no opportunity to take counsel with myself upon my course. I had
hardly yet grasped the full import of the situation and I must at once
at this very moment meet him--talk to him. I could not do it. I needed
more time, and desperately pulling some papers in front of me, I buried
myself in what I meant to appear a mass of work.

The door opened and he stood upon the threshold. I pretended neither to
see nor hear his entrance, but I stole a glance at him without lifting
my head. It was the same Littell; perfectly dressed, graceful,
insouciant, the well remembered, attractive personality.

"Well, Dick," he said, "I am with you again you see!" and in his voice
was a note of genuine feeling as he stood there smiling a greeting to
me.

It was impossible to pretend unconsciousness longer and with an effort I
looked up and met his open glance with my conscious, faltering one, and
tried to respond as cordially as I could, but I kept my seat for I could
not take his hand. It was not that I would not take the hand of a
criminal, but that I could not give mine to a man I meant to destroy; so
to cover up the omission and to avoid the questions that I feared he
would put to me, I asked him to be seated while I finished my work. He
looked at me inquiringly, but I avoided his eyes.

"Well, go on with your work," he said quietly, "I am not in a hurry";
and he sat down and waited and watched me.

I struggled to fix my attention on the matters before me and to maintain
my composure, but it was more than I was equal to; I could not do it,
and crushing my arms over the books and papers, I squared myself and
faced him to meet the worst--