"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