angled conscience makes men kinder."

Colonel Arran rang. A dark flush had overspread his forehead; he
turned to the butler.

"Bring me the despatch box which stands on: my study table."

Berkley, hands behind his back, was pacing the dining-room carpet.

"Would you accept a glass of wine?" asked Colonel Arran in a low
voice.

Berkley wheeled on him with a terrible smile.

"Shall a man drink wine with the slayer of souls?" Then, pallid
face horribly distorted, he stretched out a shaking arm. "Not that
you ever could succeed in getting near enough to murder _hers_!
But you've killed mine. I know now what died in me. It was that!
. . . And I know now, as I stand here excommunicated by you from
all who have been born within the law, that there is not left alive
in me one ideal, one noble impulse, one spiritual conviction. I am
what your righteousness has made me--a man without hope; a man with
nothing alive in him except the physical brute. . . . Better not
arouse that."

"You do not know what you are saying, Berkley"--Colonel Arran
choked; turned gray; then a spasm twitched his features and he
grasped the arms of his chair, staring at Berkley with burning eyes.

Neither spoke again until Larraway entered, carrying an inlaid box.

"Thank you, Larraway. You need not wait."

"Thank _you_, sir."

When they were again alone Colonel Arran unlocked and opened the
box, and, behind the raised lid, remained invisibly busy for some
little time, apparently sorting and re-sorting the hidden contents.
He was so very long about it that Berkley stirred at last in his
chair; and at the same moment the older man seemed to arrive at an
abrupt decision, for he closed the lid and laid two packages on the
cloth between them.

"Are these mine?" asked Berkley.

"They are mine," corrected the other quietly, "but I choose to
yield them to you."

"Thank you," said Berkley. There was a hint of ferocity in his
voice. He took the letters, turned around to look for his hat,
found it, and straightened up with a long, deep intake of breath.

"I think there is nothing more to be said between us, Colonel
Arran?"

"That lies with you."

Berkley passed a steady hand across his eyes. "Then, sir, there
remain the ceremonies of my leave taking--" he stepped closer,
level-eyed--"and my very bitter hatred."

There was a pause. Colonel Arran waited a moment, then struck the
bell:

"Larraway, Mr. Berkley has decided to go."