ger against the man suddenly faded away. It seemed to
him, as he stood there, that he was but a product of the times,
fashioned by the grinding wheel of circumstance, a physical wreck, a
creature without love or life or hope.

"Isaac," he said, "why don't you try and escape? Get away to some
other country, out onto the land somewhere. Leave the wrongs of
these others to come right with time. Work for your daily bread,
give your brain a rest."

Isaac made no reply. Only his long, skinny forefinger shot out
toward the door. Arnold knew that he might just as well have been
talking to the most hopeless lunatic ever confined in padded room.

"If this is to be farewell, Isaac," he continued, "let me at least
tell you this before I go. You are doing Ruth a cruel wrong. God
knows I am willing enough to take charge of her, but it's none the
less a brutal position for you to put her in. You have the chance,
if you will, to set her free. Think what her life has been up till
now. Have you ever thought of it, I wonder? Have you ever thought of
the long days she has spent in that attic when you have been away,
without books, with barely enough to eat, without companionship or
friends? These are the things to which you have doomed her by your
cursed selfishness. If she has friends who could take her away, and
you refuse to speak, then all I can say is that you deserve any fate
that may come to you."

Isaac remained silent for several moments. His face was dark and
dogged. When he spoke, it was with reluctance.

"Young man," he said, "every word which you have spoken has been in
my brain while I have lain here waiting for the end. A few hours ago
I slept and had a dream. When I awoke, I was weak. See here."

He drew from his pocket two sheets of closely-written foolscap.

"The story of Ruth's life is here," he declared. "I wrote it with a
stump of pencil on the back of this table. I wrote it, but I have
changed my mind, and I am going to tear it up."

Arnold was light on his feet, with a great reach, and Isaac was
unprepared. In a moment the latter was on his back, and the soiled
sheets of foolscap were in Arnold's pocket. Isaac's fingers seemed
to hover upon the trigger of his pistol as he lay there, crouched
against the wall.

"Don't be a fool!" Arnold cried, roughly. "You'll do no good by
killing me. The girl has a right to her chance."

There were several seconds of breathless silence, during which it
seemed to Arnold