He reached a hand across the table and gripped Keith's. And then, for a
few moments, he bowed his head while his body was convulsed by another
racking cough. Keith sensed the pain of it in the convulsive clutching
of Conniston's fingers about his own. When Conniston raised his face,
the red stain was on his lips again.

"You see, I've got it figured out to the day," he went on, wiping away
the stain with a cloth already dyed red. "This is Thursday. I won't see
another Sunday. It'll come Friday night or some time Saturday. I've
seen this frosted lung business a dozen times. Understand? I've got two
sure days ahead of me, possibly a third. Then you'll have to dig a hole
and bury me. After that you will no longer be held by the word of honor
you gave me when I slipped off your manacles. And I'm asking you--WHAT
ARE YOU GOING TO DO?"

In Keith's face were written deeply the lines of suffering and of
tragedy. Yesterday they had compared ages.

He was thirty-eight, only a little younger than the man who had run him
down and who in the hour of his achievement was dying. They had not put
the fact plainly before. It had been a matter of some little
embarrassment for Keith, who at another time had found it easier to
kill a man than to tell this man that he was going to die. Now that
Conniston had measured his own span definitely and with most amazing
coolness, a load was lifted from Keith's shoulders. Over the table they
looked into each other's eyes, and this time it was Keith's fingers
that tightened about Conniston's. They looked like brothers in the
sickly glow of the seal-oil lamp.

"What are you going to do?" repeated Conniston.