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As he had often heard that men live again their evil deeds in the hour of dissolution, and while he had perhaps more than the average number of sins upon his soul, he determined to die thinking only of pleasant things, if possible. He recalled his wedding-day, and pictured Muriel as she had appeared that morning. How sweet and gentle she had been, what a wonderful time it had proved for him. They had sailed for the Mediterranean on the following morning, landing at Naples, where they had spent a week. From there they had gone to Rome for three dreamlike months and then to Nice and to Cairo, all the time in a lovers’ paradise. From Egypt they had turned back to Morocco. Yes, Morocco, and how she had loved it there. Thence they had journeyed–where? To Spain, of course. Murray realized that his mind was working more slowly, which meant that the circulation to his brain was becoming sluggish. In a few moments he would be unable to think at all, it would be over–Muriel would be rich again. She was still young; she might marry some good man. From Spain they had gone by rail to–Paris? No, the Riviera–It was very difficult to think. In Germany, he remembered, they had taken an old castle for the–From Germany they had gone–gone. Yes. Muriel was–gone!

* * * * *

Murray awoke to find a trained nurse at his bedside. He was still in his room at the club, and after a time reasoned that the cocaine must be working very slowly. At the first words the nurse laid a hand upon his lips, saying:

“Don’t speak, please. You have been very ill.” Stepping to the door, she called some one, whereupon a man came quickly. Murray recognized him instantly as the famous Dr. Stormfield. They had met here three years previous and shot from the same blind.

“Hello, Murray!” the doctor began. “I’m glad you came around finally. You’ve given us the devil of a fight.”

“How long–have I been ill?” whispered the sick man.

“Two days; unconscious all the time. Lucky for you that I ran down for a little shooting and happened to be on the launch from Boonville the morning you upset. We picked up your messenger on his way to town, and I got here just in time. Now don’t talk. You’re not out of danger by any means.” That evening the physician explained further: “You must have suffered a terrible shock in that cold water. I never saw a case quite like it. Your heart puzzled me; it behaved in the most extraordinary manner.”

“You say I’m not out of danger?”

“Far from it. Your heart is nearly done for, and the slightest exertion might set you off. If you got up, if you raised yourself off the bed, you might–go out like that.” Stormfield snapped his fingers.

“I suppose my wife has been notified?”

“Yes.” The doctor looked at his patient curiously. “Would you like to have her come–“

“No, no!” A frightened look leaped into Murray’s eyes. “That’s not necessary, you know.” After a time he said: “Leave me, please. I’m tired.”

When the doctor had closed the door he lifted himself to his elbow, swung his feet out upon the floor and stood up; then, faint as he was, he began to stoop and raise himself, flexing his arms, meanwhile, as if performing a calisthenic exercise. He was possessed by the one idea, that he must succeed while there was still time.

The nurse found him face downward upon his bed and sounded a quick alarm. All that night Stormfield sat beside him, his eyes grave, his brow furrowed anxiously. At intervals a woman came to the door, then at a sign from the watcher disappeared noiselessly. Thereafter Murray was never left alone.