th the evil
growth which it is the surgeon's task to remove. In the days of his
prosperity, Bultiwell was a brute and a bully. His only moments of
comparative geniality came when he was steeped in wine and glutted
with food. His own laziness and self-indulgence paved the way to his
ruin. He then became dishonest. He deliberately tried to cheat me; he
stooped even to the paltry trick of remembering that I once admired
his daughter, and dragged her in to complete his humiliation. Believe
me, the world is a better place without its Bultiwells--a better and a
healthier place--and where I find them in life, I am going to use the
knife."

"You have used it this time perhaps even more effectually than you
thought," Dauncey groaned, as he took an evening paper from his pocket
and passed it across the table. "Mr. Bultiwell shot himself in his
office, late this afternoon. I did not tell you before, for fear it
might spoil your dinner."

Jacob sipped his wine, unmoved.

"It was really the only thing left for him," was his brief comment.

Dauncey was once more the melancholy man.

"I hope that all your interventions, or whatever you may call them,"
he said, "won't end in the same way."

Jacob's eyes looked through the walls of the restaurant. A sudden
impulse of fancy had carried him forward into that land of adventure
to which he held the golden key. He felt the thrill of danger, the
mystery of unknown places. He passed from palace to hovel. He heard
the curse of the defeated schemer, he felt the warmth and joy of
gratitude. All these figures, save one, were imaginary, and that one
was always there, always watching, always with that look of reproach
which he seemed already to see in her cold blue eyes. He fancied
himself pleading with her, only to be scorned; hiding from the dangers
she invoked; fancied her the protectress of his enemies, the evil
genius of those whom he would have befriended. And all the time there
lingered in the background of his mind the memory of that single
evening when, angered by her father's condescension, she had chosen
to be kind to him; had shown him the secret places in that wonderful
garden, glorious with budding rhododendrons, fragrant with the roses
drooping from the long pergola,--a little scene out of fairyland,
through which he had walked under the rising moon like a man
bewildered with strange happiness.

Richard leaned forward in his place.

"Are you seeing ghosts?" he asked curious