would. He'd have the joy of seeing my pain and terror and defeat--he'd
see me LAST! I'd be bloody and crushed and--"

He checked himself in the midst of these dire forebodings to rise
suddenly and cross to the ghastly looking frame with the cords, the
hinges, and the great broadaxe that lay harmlessly in the grooves
at the top. For many minutes he stood and gazed at the axe, his
flesh as cold as ice. Then he tested the cords. The axe dropped
heavily to the block below. He smiled with cunning triumph at his
own skill.

The odour of geranium leaves assailed his nostrils. With an ugly
impulse he turned and swept the pots from the window box, scattering
them over the floor.

"I'm in a devil of a humour," he laughed as he surveyed the wreck.
"Something's gone wrong with me. I've never mistreated my flowers
before." He lifted the broadaxe to its place, tenderly, almost
lovingly. "By my soul, it's a beautiful piece of work. It's as sure
as the grave itself."

Again he stood off and looked at the infernal bit of his own
handiwork, his eyes glistening with dread of the thing. He turned
and fled to the opposite side of the room, keeping his back toward
the silent guillotine which seemed to be calling to him. with
mocking yet fascinating persistency.

"Curse the thing," he groaned. "Damn it, I didn't make it for my
own use. What is the matter with me?" He glanced slyly, fearfully
over his shoulder and then faced the thing deliberately, his jaws