Elithe had not read Jack’s letter, but Clarice had. She knew what had caused Jack’s downfall, and Elithe’s words were like sharp lashes to her conscience. Paul, too, knew, but kept silent and admired Elithe for her defense of Jack. Clarice had read to him a part of Jack’s letter, and the message to him had removed all his animosity and sense of injury. Jack was the friend of his boyhood, and he would have given much to bring him to life again. Clarice was also greatly softened, partly because of her money refunded and the present bought for her. This appealed to her baser nature, while something told her she had in one sense been her brother’s keeper and failed. Elithe’s words struck home, and she sobbed aloud as she listened. “Thank you for telling me what you have,” she said. “It makes me think better of my brother. I wish I had done differently.” Then, removing the ring from her finger and offering it to Elithe, she continued: “Take it, please. It is yours. He gave it to you. He would like you to have it.” Paul drew a breath of suspense, and Miss Hansford straightened her shoulders as they waited for Elithe’s reply. “No,” she said, “I never wore it; never can wear it. I only cared for him as a friend. If it is mine I give it to you.” Miss Hansford’s shoulders dropped and Paul breathed more freely. “Thanks. I’ll accept it for Jack’s sake,” Clarice said. She was very gracious now, and as Elithe arose to go said to her: “Come and see Jack. He looks so peaceful and happy, as if he were asleep.” “I can’t,” Elithe gasped, but Clarice insisted and led the way into the room where Jack lay in his coffin ready for the early boat. On his handsome face there was a look as if death had kindly washed it clean from every mark of dissipation and left upon it the beauty and innocence of childhood. Elithe was crying,—so was Clarice, and Miss Hansford’s eyes were wet with tears. Paul alone was calm. “Poor Jack. We were always friends until the last, when he was not responsible for what he did,” he said, laying his hand on the forehead of the dead. “D-don’t,” Miss Hansford stammered, thinking of the old tradition as to what would happen if the slayer touched the corpse of the slain. Paul had touched Jack, and nothing had happened. The white forehead showed just as white in the lamp light, and around the mouth there was the same smile which had settled there when the dying lips whispered, “Elithe.” The old tradition had not worked. Paul was not afraid of Jack, and he astonished Miss Hansford still more by saying: “Perhaps you know they extracted the bullet.” She nodded, and he continued: “They have not found the revolver. Strange, too, as it must have fallen near him. I remember the one he used to have. It was very small, and expensive. Some one may have picked it up and is keeping it for its value, or it was trampled into the sand by the many feet which have visited the place from curiosity.”