gone to bed. He rose about ten o'clock, and after a light
breakfast he sat down and wrote a short letter, cleverly disguising his
own hand, and imitating the scrawly penmanship and bad spelling of an
illiterate woman.

"The last card in the game," he reflected, as he addressed and stamped
the envelope. "It may be superfluous, in case he sees or writes to her
to-day. But he won't do that--he will put off the ordeal as long as
possible. My beautiful Madge, for your sake I am steeping myself in
infamy! It is not the first time a man has sold himself to the devil for
a woman. Yet why should I feel any scruples? It would have been far
worse to let them go on living in their fool's paradise."

An hour later, as he walked down Regent street, he posted the letter he
had written in the morning.

"It will be delivered at just about the right time," he thought.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE LAST CARD.

It was nine o'clock in the evening, and darkness had fallen rather
earlier than usual, owing to a black, cloudy sky that threatened rain.
Jimmie Drexell had gone during the afternoon, and Jack was alone in the
big studio--alone with his misery and his anguish. He had scarcely
tasted food since morning, much to the distress of Alphonse. He looked
a mere wreck of his former self--haggard and unshaven, with hard lines
around his weary eyes. He had not changed his clothes, and they were
wrinkled and untidy. Across the polished floor was a perceptible track,
worn by hours of restless striding to and fro. Now, after waiting
impatiently for Victor Nevill, and wondering why he did not come, Jack
had tried to nerve himself to the task that he dreaded, that preyed
incessantly on his mind. He knew that the sooner it was over the better.
He must write to Madge and tell her the truth--deal her the terrible
blow that might break her innocent, loving heart.

"It's no use--I can't do it," he said hoarsely, when he had been sitting
at his desk for five minutes. "The words won't come. My brain is dry.
Would it be better to try to see her, and tell her all face to face?
No--anything but that!"

Thrusting pen and paper from him, he rose and went to the liquor-stand.
The cut-glass bottle containing brandy dropped from his shaking hand and
was shattered to fragments. The crash drowned the opening of the studio
door, and as he surveyed the wreck he heard footsteps, and turned
sharply around, expecting to see Nevill. Diane stood before him, in a
co