between his hands and stared at
the glittering rows of bottles which caught the sun. Each one of them
was a laughing demon. They danced and winked their eyes--yellow, blue,
and blood-red. There were a hundred of them keeping step to the
bobbing shadows upon the floor. Row upon row of them--purple, brown,
and blood-red--all dancing, all laughing.

"You come out wrong every time," Barstow had said.

And he--he had laughed back even as the bottles were doing.

He was not cringing even now. He was asking no pity, no mercy. When
he had stepped across the room and had taken down that bottle, he had
been clear-headed; he had been clear-headed when he had swallowed its
contents. The only relief he craved for himself was to be allowed to
remain clear-headed until he should have written his letter. Coming up
the stairs he feared lest this might not be. Now he seemed to be
steadying once more.

He thought of Sandy. Poor pup, he had gone out easily enough. He had
curled up on a friendly knee and gone to sleep. That was all there had
been to it. It would be an odd thing, he mused, if the dog was where
he could look down on this man-struggle. This braced him up; he would
not have even this dog see him die other than bravely.

As far as he himself was concerned, he knew that he would go
unflinchingly to meet his final creditor, but there were the
Others--with Sandy there had been no Others. It was easy enough to die
alone, but when in addition to one's own death throes one had to bear
those of others,--that was harder. When he died, it would be as when
several died. There would be that mother in Vermont--part of her would
die with him; there would be Saul--even part of him would die with him;
there was Ben--some of him would die, too; and there was Elaine--good
God, how much of her would die with him?

He sprang to his feet and began to pace the stained wooden floor. As
he did so, a shadow crawled, from beneath the sofa and stole across the
room like a rat. But unlike a rat, it did not disappear into a hole;
it came back again towards Donaldson. He stopped. Close to the ground
the shadow crept nearer until he saw that it was a dog. Then he saw
that it was a black terrier. Then he saw that in size, color, and
general appearance it was the living double of Sandy.

He stooped and extended his hand. He tried to pronounce the name, but
his lips were too dry. The dog crouched, frightened, some three feet
di