At first Parks, as most, had come to think that the man was innately a libertine, awaiting but the right one to strike the hidden flint and set the tinder aglow--the tinder that would burn, and consume, and destroy. He had known of men like that--of men who went the even pathway of their lives until there crossed it another who tore them from it; and that one they followed, leaving soul and morals and decency and cleanliness forever behind them. This, at first, he had thought to be John Schuyler. For the woman was beautiful--beautiful as an animal is beautiful.... But then he had not been so sure. His confidence had been shaken; for she had looked into his eyes, too, playfully; and he had felt his very being rock upon its foundation, and he had slunk away, chilled, helpless, horror- ridden.... After that he had avoided her. She had paid no attention to him.... So the anger--the disgust--the resentment that at first he had felt had at length been altered to sorrow, and grief, and pity beyond utterance .... Yet there had been nothing that he could do--nothing.... He could not sleep, of nights.... It was killing him, too.... Upon the soiled, rumpled sheet he wrote.... Came a noise behind him. He looked up, quickly, frightenedly.... It was Blake; and quick relief sprang to the clean-cut face. But the horror of it was in Blake's. Even as had Parks', his eyes wandered dreadingly about the room. The horror of it all was in his soul, too.... For a long time he said no word. He only looked. He thrust the curtains aside.... The dust, impalpable, strangling, fell about him .... "Good God!" he muttered. "Good God in heaven!" He saw Parks. "Has it been like this for long?" he asked. Parks shook his head. "I don't know," he answered.... And then: "It must have been. The servants are all gone." "Servants gone?" "Yes; there's been no one below stairs for a fortnight. They irritated him, and he discharged them, one and all." "His valet?" "Went last night. I go to-morrow.... To have known him as he was--and then to see him as he is--I couldn't stand it any longer." There was a pause. Blake looked about him. At length he spoke: "Does--she come here, now?" "Seldom. No one else ever comes. It's a lonely place, sir--frightfully lonely." "And he?" "Drink, if you will pardon me--and remorse. He seems bent only upon forgetting everything. Try as I will I can't keep the brandy from him. All day--all night--he drinks, and drinks, and tries to forget." Blake nodded. "I see." Parks continued: "At first it made him drunk, and he slept. But now it seems only to numb his senses. I hear him all through the night muttering--muttering. I hear him cursing himself--cursing everything, everybody--cursing her--that woman--then calling to her--calling--calling--It's horrible!" Blake again nodded.