tell me that you are going with me. If you don't, Mary and the children
will be taken away from you--to-day. You needn't ever come to the office.
This house will be closed to you. And in six months I shall have the
pleasure of burying you. You have three minutes to make up your mind."

Al made a strangling movement, and reached up with weak fingers to the
clutching hand.

"My heart . . . let me go . . . you'll be the death of me," he gasped.

The hand thrust him down forcibly into the Morris chair and released him.

The clock on the mantle ticked loudly. George glanced at it, and at Mary.
She was leaning against the table, unable to conceal her trembling. He
became unpleasantly aware of the feeling of his brother's fingers on his
hand. Quite unconsciously he wiped the back of the hand upon his coat.
The clock ticked on in the silence. It seemed to George that the room
reverberated with his voice. He could hear himself still speaking.

"I'll go," came from the Morris chair.

It was a weak and shaken voice, and it was a weak and shaken man that
pulled himself out of the Morris chair. He started toward the door.

"Where are you going?" George demanded.

"Suit case," came the response. "Mary'll send the trunk later. I'll be
back in a minute."

The door closed after him. A moment later, struck with sudden suspicion,