he stood up well to-day, eh?"

"I suppose blood will tell at last in the very worst."

"'And while the lamp holds out to burn
The vilest sinner may return--'"

hummed Dicky musingly. Then he added slowly: "Fielding, fellows of that
kind always flare up a bit according to Cavendish, just before the end.
I've seen it once or twice before. It's the last clutch at the grass as
they go slip--slip--slipping down. Take my word for it, Heatherby's near
the finish."

"I shouldn't wonder. Selamlik, the old leper, 'll lay in wait for him.
He'll get lost in the sugar-cane one of these evenings soon."

"Couldn't we . . ." Dicky paused.

Fielding started, looked at Dicky intently, and then shook his head
sadly. "It's no good, Dicky. It never is."

"'While the lamp holds out to burn . . .'" said Dicky, and lighted
another cigarette.

Precisely at seven o'clock Heatherby appeared. He had on a dress-suit,
brown and rusty, a white tie made of a handkerchief torn in two, and a
pair of patent leather shoes, scraggy and cracked.

Fielding behaved well, Dicky was amiable and attentive, and the dinner
being ready to the instant, there was no waiting, there were no awkward