azed curiously about the room. He had a
strange foreboding, but forced himself to ask in a jocular mood: "Going
to Egypt again?"

"Farther than that this time, but it won't take so long; the journey I
am contemplating will be over by to-morrow evening, I hope."

"What do you mean?"

"The game is up."

The tall, lean man made no immediate reply, he merely gazed steadily
into the face of his friend. He had always suspected that it would come
to this some day. He really wondered that Morrison had not done it long
ago. If any man had a right to dispose of his life it was surely
Morrison. He had endured more than most human beings. His case was
absolutely hopeless.

"Is there no way out of it?"

Morrison shook his head. He wanted to say something, but his voice
failed him. He stepped to the dresser near the window, looked into the
mirror and arranged his faded, threadbare tie. It was pitiful to see how
shabbily he was dressed. He no longer set the fashion as in his days of
success, years ago in Boston.

"Would money help you?" and the tall, lean visitor fumbled in his
pockets. Although fairly well dressed, he was hard up most of the time
and only ventured to broach the subject as he just happened to have a
few dollars to spare that day.

"No, what good would the little do that you could give me?" and he
continued to adjust matters and tuck things away in his trunk.

"There, you are right again, not much. But I won forty dollars on the
track; I sometimes go out there," he added as a sort of excuse, "as it
is impossible to live on literature alone. I could spare ten."

"Can you really spare them? I won't be able to return them, you know. I
would like to have them. I suppose you will refuse to let me buy a
revolver with them. I have all sorts of poisons," he pointed to some
little bottles, "but I would prefer not to use them, it wouldn't be
esthetical, and then I want to go away to some place where nobody knows
me. I don't want to be identified."

The literary man slowly pulled a small roll out of his pocket. He
thought of his wife and children who needed the money. It was really
foolish to have made that offer. Well, it was probably the last service
he could render his friend. Morrison was serious about his departure,
there was no doubt about that. "Here!"

"Thanks," Morrison answered, though he did not take the money right
away. He looked about absentmindedly, as in a dream. This was friendship
indeed. He had