Walcott hailed a cab, and the two were driven to his house on the
avenue. Walcott took out his latchkey, opened the door, and led
the way into the library. He turned on the light and motioned
Mason to seat himself at the table. Then he went into another room
and presently returned with a bundle of papers and a decanter of
brandy. He poured out a glass of the liquor and offered it to
Mason. The man shook his head. Walcott poured the contents of the
glass down his own throat. Then he set the decanter down and drew
up a chair on the side of the table opposite Mason.

"Sir," said Walcott, in a voice deliberate, indeed, but as hollow
as a sepulcher, "I am done for. God has finally gathered up the
ends of the net, and it is knotted tight."

"Am I not here to help you?" said Mason, turning savagely. "I can
beat Fate. Give me the details of her trap."

He bent forward and rested his arms on the table. His streaked
gray hair was rumpled and on end, and his face was ugly. For a
moment Walcott did not answer. He moved a little into the shadow;
then he spread the bundle of old yellow papers out before him.

"To begin with," he said, "I am a living lie, a gilded crime-made
sham, every bit of me. There is not an honest piece anywhere. It
is all lie. I am a liar and a thief before men. The property
which I possess is not mine, but stolen from a dead man. The very
name which I bear is not my own, but is the bastard child of a
crime. I am more than all that--I am a murderer; a murderer before
the law; a murderer before God; and worse than a murderer before
the pure woman whom I love more than anything that God could make."