nature, to another man, preserving meanwhile the letter of the law,
respecting that bond which he had shamed by his excesses.

Kathleen was now sitting at another man's table--no, probably at his own
table--his, Charley Steele's own table in his own house--the house he had
given her by deed of gift the day he died. Tom Fairing was sitting where
he used to sit, talking across the table--not as he used to talk--looking
into Kathleen's face as he had never looked. He was no more to them than
a dark memory. "Well, why should I be more?" he asked himself. "I am
dead, if not buried. They think me down among the fishes. My game is
done; and when she gets older and understands life better, Kathleen will
say, 'Poor Charley--he might have been anything!' She'll be sure to say
that some day, for habit and memory go round in a circle and pass the
same point again and again. For me--they take me by the throat--" He
put his hand up as if to free his throat from a grip, his tongue touched
his lips, his hands grew restless.

"It comes back on me like a fit of ague, this miserable thirst. If I
were within sight of Jolicoeur's saloon, I should be drinking hard this
minute. But I'm here, and--" His hand felt his pocket, and he took out
the powders the great surgeon had sent him.

"He knew--how did he know that I was a drunkard? Does a man carry in his
face the tale he would not tell? Jo says I didn't talk of the past, that
I never had delirium, that I never said a word to suggest who I was, or
where I came from. Then how did the doctor--man know? I suppose every
particular habit carries its own signal, and the expert knows the
ciphers." He opened the paper containing the powders, and looked round
for water, then paused, folded the paper up, and put it in his pocket
again. He went over to the window and looked out. His shoulders set