And then the disgraced husband remembered Alida Hathorn’s parting malediction: “I leave it to the future to punish you.” He arose and sought the brandy bottle with uncertain steps. For he realized at last that whatever game the Senator and his wife were playing, he was counted only a mere pawn. And, the game of Life was going against him now! His power had departed from him, and before he showed his distorted face next day on Wall Street his line of private stocks was sold out “under the rule,” and he was really a beggar—stripped of all his ill-gotten gains, when he returned that night to face his wife, who, richly dressed for an evening’s outing, passed by him with a silent sneer. Truly a marriage _à la mode_. He was at bay now! Vreeland turned into his own room with a muttered curse, and after a vicious pull at the brandy bottle, rushed out upon the streets to wander aimlessly in the throngs of the night. For he was chased out by the maddening thoughts brought to his half-crazed mind by a chance glance at the _Evening Journal_. “A social note” of interest heralded the fact that “Mr. and Mrs. James Potter had returned from Europe, and that the hospitable VanSittart mansion on Fifth Avenue would soon be opened to society once more, as well as the beautiful old colonial manor house of Oakhurst. This union of two old families has united hearts as well as millions,” etc. “By God! I will not live in New York to have her laugh at my downfall!” swore Vreeland, as he raced along with his coat opened to the chill autumn air. The menace of her curse came back: “I leave it to the future to punish you!” And at last, he was a broken and ruined man—a human wreck. On this sharp evening of early October, Senator-elect James Garston sat alone, moodily gazing into the cheerful wood fire in his sumptuous room at the Plaza. He watched the bright blaze for an hour, until the hickory billets had turned into white ashes, flaking the tiles at his feet. On the table at his side lay an unfinished letter, and by the dying embers the man who had the world at his feet groaned. “Ashes of life! The ashes of a dead past.” For, by the side of his last passionate appeal lay one or two tattered letters traced in a girlish hand. Garston walked the floor with a strong, resounding tread, as he went over every detail of the veiled duel of the last months. In the glass at either end of the room he saw his own strong, resolute face, the silvered temples framed in iron-gray hair, his brow furrowed with the lines of care which neither his honors nor his millions could efface. On the table lay his watch, pocketbook and revolver. He paused, and picked up the heavy Smith & Wesson aimlessly. The man who had faced death in a hundred forms bitterly smiled as the trigger yielded to his practiced finger. There, he held ready fate in his hand! “Here is either vengeance or release,” he gloomily muttered. “If we were to go together.”