"When did he say that?"

"He said it several times, sir; about a week ago the last time."

Robbins turned the handle of the door; it was not locked. A dim light
was in the room, but a screen before the door hid it from sight. When
he passed round the screen he saw, upon the square marble-topped
arrangement at the head of the bed, a candle burning, and its light
shone on the dead face of the Skeleton, which had a grim smile on its
thin lips, while in its clenched hand was a letter addressed to the
proprietor of the hotel.

The Living Skeleton had given more than the eighty francs to that
deserving charity.




HIGH STAKES.


The snow was gently sifting down through the white glare of the
electric light when Pony Rowell buttoned his overcoat around him and
left the Metropolitan Hotel, which was his home. He was a young man,
not more than thirty, and his face was a striking one. It was clean cut
and clean shaven. It might have been the face of an actor or the face
of a statesman. An actor's face has a certain mobility of expression
resulting from the habit of assuming characters differing widely.
Rowell's face, when you came to look at it closely, showed that it had