have read them--you--will--go back--to capture--and death!"

They were his last words. He pressed Jack's hand faintly. Then his grasp
relaxed, and he fell back a corpse.

It was nearly ten o'clock at night, and Mrs. Decker reclined languidly
upon the sofa with a novel in her hand, while her husband discussed
the politics of the country in the bar-room of the hotel. It was a
warm night; and the French window looking out upon a little balcony was
partly open. Suddenly she heard a foot upon the balcony, and she raised
her eyes from the book with a slight start. The next moment the window
was hurriedly thrust wide, and a man entered.

Mrs. Decker rose to her feet with a little cry of alarm.

"For Heaven's sake, Jack, are you mad? He has only gone for a little
while--he may return at any moment. Come an hour later, to-morrow, any
time when I can get rid of him--but go, now, dear, at once."

Mr. Oakhurst walked toward the door, bolted it, and then faced her
without a word. His face was haggard; his coat-sleeve hung loosely over
an arm that was bandaged and bloody.

Nevertheless her voice did not falter as she turned again toward him.
"What has happened, Jack. Why are you here?"

He opened his coat, and threw two letters in her lap.

"To return your lover's letters; to kill you--and then myself," he said
in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible.