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Jack turned his dark, questioning eyes upon his second, but did not seem to listen,–rather seemed to hear some other voice, remoter in the distance. He hesitated, and then made a step forward in the direction of the distant group. Then he paused again as the figures separated, and the surgeon came hastily toward him.

“He would like to speak with you a moment,” said the man. “You have little time to lose, I know; but,” he added in a lower voice, “it is my duty to tell you he has still less.”

A look of despair, so hopeless in its intensity, swept over Mr. Oakhurst’s usually impassive face, that the surgeon started. “You are hit,” he said, glancing at Jack’s helpless arm.

“Nothing–a mere scratch,” said Jack hastily. Then he added with a bitter laugh, “I’m not in luck to-day. But come: we’ll see what he wants.”

His long, feverish stride outstripped the surgeon’s; and in another moment he stood where the dying man lay,–like most dying men,–the one calm, composed, central figure of an anxious group. Mr. Oakhurst’s face was less calm as he dropped on one knee beside him, and took his hand. “I want to speak with this gentleman alone,” said Hamilton, with something of his old imperious manner, as he turned to those about him. When they drew back, he looked up in Oakhurst’s face.

“I’ve something to tell you, Jack.”

His own face was white, but not so white as that which Mr. Oakhurst bent over him,–a face so ghastly, with haunting doubts, and a hopeless presentiment of coming evil,–a face so piteous in its infinite weariness and envy of death, that the dying man was touched, even in the languor of dissolution, with a pang of compassion; and the cynical smile faded from his lips.

“Forgive me, Jack,” he whispered more feebly, “for what I have to say. I don’t say it in anger, but only because it must be said. I could not do my duty to you, I could not die contented, until you knew it all. It’s a miserable business at best, all around. But it can’t be helped now. Only I ought to have fallen by Decker’s pistol, and not yours.”

A flush like fire came into Jack’s cheek, and he would have risen; but Hamilton held him fast.

“Listen! In my pocket you will find two letters. Take them–there! You will know the handwriting. But promise you will not read them until you are in a place of safety. Promise me.”

Jack did not speak, but held the letters between his fingers as if they had been burning coals.

“Promise me,” said Hamilton faintly.

“Why?” asked Oakhurst, dropping his friend’s hand coldly.

“Because,” said the dying man with a bitter smile,–“because–when you have read them–you–will–go back–to capture–and death!”

They were his last words. He pressed Jack’s hand faintly. Then his grasp relaxed, and he fell back a corpse.

It was nearly ten o’clock at night, and Mrs. Decker reclined languidly upon the sofa with a novel in her hand, while her husband discussed the politics of the country in the bar-room of the hotel. It was a warm night; and the French window looking out upon a little balcony was partly open. Suddenly she heard a foot upon the balcony, and she raised her eyes from the book with a slight start. The next moment the window was hurriedly thrust wide, and a man entered.

Mrs. Decker rose to her feet with a little cry of alarm.

“For Heaven’s sake, Jack, are you mad? He has only gone for a little while–he may return at any moment. Come an hour later, to-morrow, any time when I can get rid of him–but go, now, dear, at once.”

Mr. Oakhurst walked toward the door, bolted it, and then faced her without a word. His face was haggard; his coat-sleeve hung loosely over an arm that was bandaged and bloody.

Nevertheless her voice did not falter as she turned again toward him. “What has happened, Jack. Why are you here?”