fine one were the mouth hidden. The eyes were dark and steady. A high
forehead looked higher by reason of a growth of thick hair standing
nearly an inch upright from the scalp, like the fur of a beaver in
life, without curl or ripple. The chin was long and pointed. A face,
this, that any would turn to look at again. One would think that such
a man would get on in the world. But none may judge of another in this
respect. It is a strange fact that intimacy with any who has made for
himself a great name leads to the inevitable conclusion that he is
unworthy of it.

"Wonderful!" murmured Von Holzen--"wonderful! Nearly thirty-five!" And
it was hard to say what his thoughts really were. The only sound that
came from the bed was the sound of drinking.

"And I know more about the trade than any, for I was brought up to it
from boyhood," said the dying man, with an uncanny bravado. "I did not
wait until I was driven to it, like most."

"Yes, you were skilful, as I have been told."

"Not all skill--not all skill," piped the metallic voice, indistinctly.
"There was knowledge also."

Von Holzen, standing with his hands in the pockets of his thin
overcoat, shrugged his shoulders. They had arrived by an
oft-trodden path to an ancient point of divergence. Presently Von
Holzen turned and went towards the bed. The yellow hand and arm lay
stretched out across the table, and Holzen's finger softly found the
pulse.