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“What does my life amount to? Think how little it means. A few more weeks of waiting. Then the suffering: then the release. You heard Dr. Smith. You know. You understand. Didn’t you understand?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Then you must see what a splendid way out this is for me. No more waiting. No pain. Death never came to any one so kindly before. It’s my chance, if only you’ll make it worth while. Will you?” he pleaded.

“Oh, the wonder of it!” she whispered, gazing on him with parted lips. But he did not understand, yet. He pressed what he thought to be his advantage.

“Here,” he cried, suddenly dropping her hands and catching up the bills from the valise. “Here’s safety. Here’s life. For you and your sister, both. You spoke of Providence a moment ago. Here’s Providence for you! Quick! Take it.”

“What is it?” she asked, drawing away as he sought to thrust the money into her hands.

“Twenty thousand dollars. More. It doesn’t matter. It’s life for both of you. Have you the right to refuse it? Take it and go.”

She let the bank-notes fall from her hands unnoticed.

“Do you think I would leave you now?” she cried in a voice of thrilled music. “Even if they weren’t sure to trace me, as they would be.”

This last she uttered as an unimportant matter dismissed with indifference.

“There will be nothing to trace. My confession will cover the ground.”

“Confession? To what?”

“To the murder of Ely Crouch.”

Some sort of sound I was conscious of making. I suppose I gasped. But they were too engrossed to hear.

“You would do even that? But the penalty–the shame–“

“What do they matter to a dying man?” he retorted impatiently.

She had fallen back from him, in the shock of his suggestion, but now she came forward again slowly, her glorious eyes fixed on his. So they stood face to face, soul to soul, deep answering unto deep, and, as I sit here speaking, I saw the wonder and the miracle flower in her face. When she spoke again, her words seemed the inevitable expression of that which had passed silently between them.

“Do you love me?”

“Before God I do,” he answered.

“Take me away! There’s time yet. I’ll go with you anywhere, anywhere! I’m all yours. I’ve loved you from the first, I think, as you have loved me. All I ask is to live for you, and when you die, to die with you.”

Fire flashed from his face at the call. He took a step toward her. A shout, half-muffled, sounded from outside the window. Instantly the light and passion died in his eyes. I have never seen a face at once so stern and so gentle as his was when he caught the outreaching hands in his own.

“You forget that they must find one of us, or it’s all no use. Listen carefully, dear one. If you truly love me, you must do as I bid you. Give me my chance of fooling fate; of making my death worth while. It won’t be hard.” He took the little box from his pocket. “It will be very easy.”

“Give it to me, too,” she pleaded like a child. “Ah, Ned, we can’t part now! Both of us together.”

He shook his head, smiling. The man’s face was as beautiful as a god’s at that moment or an angel’s. “You must go back to your sister,” he said simply. “You haven’t the right to die.”

He turned to the table, drew a sheet of paper to him and wrote four words. You all know what they were; his confession. Then his hand went up, a swift movement, and a moment later he was setting back the glass of water upon the desk whence he had taken it.

“Love and glory of my life, will you go?” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Not until then did the paralysis, which had gripped me when I saw Ned turn the pellets into his hand, relax. I ran forward. The girl cried out. Ned met me with his hand against my breast.