ther direction.

It would have been hard to recognise in the Oakley of the present the
man of a few years before. The strong frame had gone away to bone, and
nothing of his old power sat on either brow or chin. He was as a man who
trembled on the brink of insanity. His guilty secret had been too much
for him, and Skaggs's own fingers twitched as he saw his host's hands
seek the breast of his jacket every other moment.

"It is there the secret is hidden," he said to himself, "and whatever it
is, I must have it. But how--how? I can't knock the man down and rob him
in his own house." But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first
cue.

"You--you--perhaps have a message from my brother--my brother who is in
Paris. I have not heard from him for some time."

Skaggs's mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel's story.
Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret. "Now or
never," he thought. So he said boldly, "Yes, I have a message from your
brother."

The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. "You have? you have?
Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!"

The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his
power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion.

"Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret,
that you bear it in your breast--there--there. I am his messenger. He
bids you to give it to me."

Oakley had shrunken back as if he had been struck.

"No, no!" he gasped, "no, no! I have no secret."

The reporter moved nearer him. The old man shrunk against the wall, his
lips working convulsively and his hand tearing at his breast as Skaggs
drew nearer. He attempted to shriek, but his voice was husky and broke
off in a gasping whisper.

"Give it to me, as your brother commands."

"No, no, no! It is not his secret; it is mine. I must carry it here
always, do you hear? I must carry it till I die. Go away! Go away!"

Skaggs seized him. Oakley struggled weakly, but he had no strength. The
reporter's hand sought the secret pocket. He felt a paper beneath his
fingers. Oakley gasped hoarsely as he drew it forth. Then raising his
voice gave one agonised cry, and sank to the floor frothing at the
mouth. At the cry rapid footsteps were heard in the hallway, and Mrs.
Oakley threw open the door.

"What is the matter?" she cried.

"My message has somewhat upset your husband," was the cool answer.

"But hi