idly regarded the cheque he was still holding.

"And what are you going to do?" he asked at length.

There came no reply, and several minutes passed in silence. Then
Hilliard rose from the table, paced the floor once or twice,
selected a cigar from a box that caught his eye, and, in cutting off
the end, observed quietly--

"I'm going to live."

"Wait a minute. We'll have the table cleared, and a kettle on the
fire."

While the servant was busy, Hilliard stood with an elbow on the
mantelpiece, thoughtfully smoking his cigar. At Narramore's request,
he mixed two tumblers of whisky toddy, then took a draught from his
own, and returned to his former position.

"Can't you sit down?" said Narramore.

"No, I can't."

"What a fellow you are! With nerves like yours, I should have been
in my grave years ago. You're going to live, eh?"

"Going to be a machine no longer. Can I call myself a man? There's
precious little difference between a fellow like me and the damned
grinding mechanism that I spend my days in drawing--that roars all
day in my ears and deafens me. I'll put an end to that. Here's four