"No, citizen."

Mole helped the suffering wretch into his bath. Not a movement, not a
quiver of the eyelid betrayed one single emotion which he may have felt--
neither loathing nor sympathy, only placid indifference. He was just a
half-starved menial, thankful to accomplish any task for the sake of
satisfying a craving stomach. Marat stretched out his shrunken limbs in
the herbal water with a sigh of well-being.

"And the ring, citizen?" Mole suggested presently.

The demagogue held up his left hand--it was emaciated and disfigured by
disease. A cheap-looking metal ring, set with a false stone, glistened
upon the fourth finger.

"Take it off," he said curtly.

The ring must have all along been too small for the bony hand of the
once famous Court physician. Even now it appeared embedded in the flabby
skin and refused to slide over the knuckle.

"The water will loosen it," remarked Mole quietly.

Marat dipped his hand back into the water, and the other stood beside
him, silent and stolid, his broad shoulders bent, his face naught but a
mask, void and expressionless beneath its coating of grime.

One or two seconds went by. The air was heavy with steam and a medley of
evil-smelling fumes, which hung in the close atmosphere of the narrow