"On October 3, 1906, you grievously added to the unhappiness of Mrs. Harrington-Adams by asserting in mixed company that no one in New York would receive her and that all Americans were astonished that she should be received at all in London." Here at any rate was an opportunity. Through the smoke he cried: "There at least I am innocent. I have never known Mrs. Harrington-Adams. I have never even seen her." "No," the voice replied. "But you spoke to Mrs. Phillops who spoke to Miss Cator who then cut Mrs. Adams. Other people followed Miss Cator's example, and you were quoted as an authority. Mrs. Adams's London life was ruined. She had never done you any harm." "On December 14, 1912, you told your sisters that you hated the sight of them and their stuffy ways, that their attempts at culture were ridiculous, and that, like all American women, they were absurdly spoilt." Through the smoke Harkness shouted: "I am sure I never said----" The voice replied: "I am quoting your exact words." "In a moment of pique I lost my temper. Of course I didn't mean----" "On June 3, 1913, you went secretly into the library of a friend and stole his book of Rembrandt drawings. You knew in your heart that you had no intention of returning it to him, and when, some months later, he spoke of it, wishing to lend it to you and wondered why he could not find it you said nothing to him about your own possession of it." Harkness blushed through the rolling smoke. "Yes, that was shameful," he cried. "But I knew that he didn't care about the book and I----" "What have you to say against these charges?" "They are all little things," Harkness cried, "small things. Every one does them. . . ." "Judgment! Judgment! Judgment!" cried the voice, and suddenly he felt himself moving in the vast waters of human nudity that were slipping down the incline. He tried to stay himself, he flung out his hands and touched nothing but cold slimy flesh. Faster and faster and faster. Colder and colder and colder. Darker and darker and darker. Despair seized him. He called on his friends. Others were calling on every side of him. Thousands and thousands of names mingled in the air. The smoke came up to meet them--vast billowing clouds of it. He knew with a horrible consciousness that below him a sea of upturned swords, were waiting to receive them. Soon they would be impaled. . . . With a shriek of agony he awoke. He had not been asleep for more, perhaps, than ten minutes, but the dream had unnerved him. When he rose from the ground he tottered and stood trembling. He knew now why it was that his enemy had designed that he should sleep; he knew _now_ that he could no longer ward off the animal that on padded feet had been approaching him--the pain! The pain! The pain!