ill you get me the whiskey decanter and a glass? You'll find them
in the dining-room--on the sideboard--to the left."

Decanter in hand, Cavendish stood watching her, as she tenderly poured a
little of the raw spirit between her father's lips. The effect was
almost instantaneous. Rathbawne choked, swallowed the restorative, and
presently raised his head and looked at her, patting her hand
tremulously with his own. They were so absorbed in each other that
neither noted a sudden, strange transformation in Cavendish's
expression. From the wide-mouthed decanter in his hand, the faint acrid
odor of Peter Rathbawne's fine old Scotch whiskey crept upward, stung
his nostrils, and, of a sudden, set him all a-quiver, like a startled
animal. The smell was almost that of pure alcohol, and set his mouth
watering, and drove his breath out in a little shuddering gasp that was
like a revulsion from some sickening medicine, just swallowed. But he
knew it, none the less, for something which belonged to and was part of
him. For weeks he had avoided it. Now it assailed him like that foe of
Hercules, of whom he had spoken to Barclay, whose strength was
multiplied a hundred-fold for every time his opponent trod him under
foot.

As he told the Lieutenant-Governor, at the moment when least he
expected it, the demon touched his arm. For a minute he fought
desperately against the suggestion, with his eyes closed, and his teeth
cutting into his inner lip. He clung madly to the thought of the
presence in which he was, conscious that the girl's words had
uplifted him immeasurably, given him a clearer insight into the
essential significance of life than he had ever known. It was
useless--useless--useless! There was nothing left in the world but the
smell of the liquor that he loathed and that he loved!

"If you were to leave us alone"--

At the suggestion, Cavendish bowed and went slowly back toward the
dining-room. Once out of sight of the others, he paused, glanced back
over his shoulder, and then, abruptly, supporting himself with one hand
against the side-post of the doorway, raised the decanter in the other
to his lips, and drank.

XIII

THE INSTRUMENT OF FATE

The day had been deliciously warm and still, one of those eloquent
heralds of spring that are touched with a peculiar beauty rivaling her
own. As Cavendish came out of the Rathbawne residence, Bradbury Avenue
was splashed with huge blotches of dazzling yellow, where the