The car stopped before the porte-cochere. Blake alighted. He knew well the way. He did not ring; for the door was unlocked--ajar. Jaw close set-- lips but a thin straight line, he made his way down the great, dark, silent hall. He had come to do that which it were hard to do. When one has been the friend of such a man as John Schuyler was--when one has felt toward a man as such a man as John Schuyler must be felt toward--when one has known that man to do the things that he has done--when one has seen the misery--the suffering unutterable that he has caused--the shame beyond depth, the grief beyond measurement--and when she upon whom has been heaped this shame and grief and misery and suffering unutterable is the woman one loves--then it becomes not a little thing to go to that man without murder in one's heart and vengeance in one's soul. Blake knew where he was most likely to find the man that had been his friend. There he went, thrusting open the broad door. He paused upon the threshold.... The woman, lifted her head.... She moved away from Schuyler, arranging the dead black masses of her hair.... She laughed a little. Schuyler turned. Eyes again leaden saw Blake. "You!" he cried. Blake said no word. Schuyler laughed, raucously. "So you, of all, have not decided to flee from the leper." Blake, looking at him, said, slowly: "No; I stay behind and stand the stench for the sake of him who was my friend." "Is the stench then so great that it precludes the common courtesy of announcing your presence?" Blake made no answer to this. "I wish to see you alone," he said, simply. Schuyler half swung from him. "You may see me as I am." he returned, doggedly. "And a most damnably unpleasant sight it is." Schuyler wheeled. "You go too far," he said, threateningly. "Too far?" repeated Blake. "Impossible.... I wish to see you alone--if you, and this woman--dare." She, smiling, bowed, graciously. "By all means," she agreed, easily. "No!" cried Schuyler. "Stay where you are." She shook her head. "Pray pardon me. I'll wait in the morning room." Alone, Blake turned and looked at Schuyler. Could it be that this was the man that had been his friend? ... It must be; and yet how could it be? There was in his heart a great bitterness. He could not understand.... Schuyler had turned to him. "Look here, Tom," he began, doggedly, "before you begin, I wish to tell you that it is useless. Nothing that you can say will change me in the slightest. I've made up my mind; and my decision is unalterable." "Irrevocable, is the word." "As you will.... I'm sorry if the course I choose doesn't seem right to you--to the world--sometimes even to myself--and I'll confess to you that it doesn't--But, right, or wrong, it's the only one for me, and I must take it--must, whether I will or not. So, if you've come for a cigar and a chat, well and good. But if for anything else, go and avoid trouble."