had been lying on his face in the smoke-filled room when Dennis broke
into it, and he had been carried down the stairs without his face being
seen at all.

To Dennis it was as though he had been made a fool of by Fate or
Providence, or whatever controlled the destinies of men; as though the
dangerous episode had been arranged to trap him into this situation.

Ingolby drew near and laid a hand upon Dennis's arm. Fleda's hand was on
the other arm.

"You can't kill a man and save him too," said Ingolby quietly, and
holding the abashed blue eyes of Dennis. "There were two ways to punish
him; taking away his life at great cost, or giving it him at great cost.
If you'd taken away his life, the cost would probably have been your own
life; in giving him his life you only risked your own; you had a chance
to save it. You're a bit scorched-hair, eyebrows, moustache, clothes
too, but he'll have brimstone inside him. Come along. Your wife would
rather have it this way; and so will you, to-morrow. Come along."

Dennis suddenly swung round with a gesture of fury. "He spoiled her-
treated her like dirt!" he cried huskily.

With savage purpose he made a movement towards where Marchand had lain;
but Marchand was gone. With foresight Ingolby had quickly and quietly
accomplished that while Dennis's back was turned.

"You'd be treating her like a brute if you went to prison for killing
Marchand," urged Ingolby. "Give her a chance. She's fretting her heart
out."