All was immediately confusion and alarm. Rowton, after firing, fell to the ground in strong convulsions. Long John, white as a sheet, caught up a napkin to stay the blood which began to pour from his wounded arm. Simpkins rushed to one of the windows to shut it, fearing that the police might have heard the sound of the shot. Long John’s face became more and more ghastly—a smile kept coming and going on his thin lips. Simpkins ran forward to help him. Scrivener and another man approached the heap on the floor which had represented the strong, athletic form of Rowton not ten minutes ago. “What are you trying to say, mate?” whispered Scrivener. “Take me where I can be alone.” The two men tried to lift him in their arms. “Stay,” called Long John; “we can put cushions on the floor and lay him here. I am going. One word to you, Rowton, before we part; we have not yet squared the record.” “We wait for that,” answered Rowton. He raised his glassy eyes and fixed them on Long John’s cadaverous face. Long John staggered to the door. The other men hurried to place cushions and coats in a corner on the floor. They laid the dying man on them. “How long have I to live?” he asked. “I do not know,” returned Scrivener, “but I think for two or three hours. We gave that poison before to——” “Hush!” said Simpkins suddenly, clapping his hands across Scrivener’s mouth. “I forgot myself in the excitement of the moment,” answered Scrivener. “I wish I’d never done the ghastly deed—Rowton of all men! If it were not for Long John, and that he’d find a way to hurry one out of the world if one did not do his slightest wish, why——” Scrivener wiped the dew from his face. “Ours is a ghastly calling,” said Simpkins. “There, mates,” he added, turning to where a group of the men were huddled together in a distant part of the room, “you had best leave us. Long John is not killed, but he has got his deserts after a fashion, and he’ll have to lie dark for a bit. The rest of you go home, and be quick about it. When we want you again we’ll let you know.” The men still hesitated. At last one of them, treading on tiptoe, came to the upper end of the room. “Shake hands, mate,” said this fellow, going on his knees and holding out his hand to Rowton. “Say you forgive us before we go.” “I forgive you, mates,” answered Rowton; “you were only tools. There is one man whom I do not forgive, and that is your boss. He acted with treachery and you were not courageous enough to resist. Now go. I have only a short time to live and much to do.” One by one the men came up, looked at his ashy face, shook their heads, and slowly left the room. When they had all gone Rowton spoke to Simpkins. “What did he give me?” he asked. With some hesitation Simpkins named a drug, bending low to do so. Rowton’s face could not grow more ghastly. “Then it is certain death,” he said. “Yes, certain death; but, if you like, we’ll fetch a doctor.”