‘Better not’ he said to himself; ‘it’s kind of a skeery tale.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘No one saw us go up,’ he muttered, and grimly, ‘I guess no one saw us come down.’ He ran his eye over the paper. ‘“I bet Mr Dick Denver the sum of £200 that I visit with him a condemned hole called ‘La boîte du diable,’ and stay there as long or longer than he does. ‘“ Play or pay. ‘“Albert Massinger, October 9th, 188--. Dick Denver.”’ So it ran. With a pencil he scribbled a line underneath: ‘Lost and paid. A. M. stays there for ever. Burn this.--D. D.’ He took out of his pocket a bundle of notes, then stole gently forward and pinned them both to the pillow of the bed where a white figure lay sleeping. Then he stood back and gazed with a wistful, yearning look in his eyes. The white-robed figure moved restlessly in its sleep, and a sigh that went straight to Dick’s heart came stealing across the room. The window faced east, and the dawning light fell softly on the sweet face resting on a bare white arm, and on the fair hair trailing across the pillow. A tiny puff of sea-air floated in, and ruffled the lace falling back from the delicate throat. A mad longing seized upon Dick; he took two steps forward, then stopped irresolutely and staggered back against the wall, as a far-off mountain cry of beast or bird was wafted in at the window, sounding in his ears like that other cry heard not long ago. It steadied him, and with a noiseless step he moved swiftly to the bed, and stooping, pressed his lips lightly to one fair tress that fell softly over neck and bosom; then he raised himself as swiftly. Without another look he passed through the window, and swinging himself over the rail, walked hurriedly through the morning mist in the direction of the pier. Two hours afterwards, Mr Dick Denver leant against the side of the French packet ‘Belle Ile’ as she made steady way from the port of St Martin. His eyes were fixed on a fast-vanishing white building. ‘I’m best with a new hand; there was nothing _to_ that racket. But it just licks creation how I made tracks; it wasn’t in the programme, anyway. Why did I? Dick, my son, why did you?... We--ell, ’pears to me somehow I remembered a saying: “Ye cannot get figs from thistles”; I guess that’s right so,--and,’ exceeding bitterly, ‘who am I that I should lift my face to hers?’ ASHES To the Inexorable, what need of incense-burning, when from the ashes of human life is ever rising a measured stream of smoke?