“I wonder!” said John Endor. A further long pause followed. And then George Hierons said, in a tone which in such circumstances seemed rather careless, “If you are not going to make use of the phial you had better give it to me.” Endor looked keenly at the American. “In order,” he said, choosing each word with care, “that you may use it in the breaking of the Sixth Commandment?” Hierons did not deny that such was his intention. “No, no, my friend,” said Endor, decisively. “I cannot aid and abet you in doing that which I will not do myself.” “But that is surely extreme,” said Hierons, with a touch of impatience. “Please give me the phial that I may do with it as I choose. Even if there was time to procure a second phial before the term expires, the laws of the Society make it impossible for one to do so. The code which governs the use of this weapon is very rigidly enforced.” “I am glad to know that such is the case,” said Endor, grimly. “And I fully appreciate your own courage and self-sacrifice. But, as I say, I cannot help you or any one else to do that which my conscience will not sanction my doing myself.” “Don’t be quixotic,” said Hierons, with growing impatience. “As far as one can see, this is the only possible way out.” Endor, however, was a rock. “I cannot, I will not, lend myself to cold-blooded murder. It is true that at a time of severe overstrain, I made certain vows. And it is true that I have chosen to break them. But having done so deliberately, I am now ready to pay a full price for the privilege.” Such a finality of tone moved Helen to tears. Hierons, also, was deeply affected. “You ought to think of others,” said Helen, piteously. “The world must not lose you. Does your life, your work, mean nothing?” Endor raised his hands to his face with the gesture of a man driven beyond his strength. But he did not speak. As Helen and George Hierons stood watching him, a sense of utter despair came upon them. They now shared in common a desolating thought. Even in a world in which Good was submerged, it seemed possible to pay too high a price for the hope of dethroning Evil. LIV Helen and the American had a sudden craving for fresh air. For both the restriction of four walls had grown intolerable. Endor’s wife begged her friend as he was leaving the house to let her walk with him some of the way towards his hotel. Hierons readily assented. Devoured by pity for a brave woman, he was also devoured by pity for a brave man. Loyal as he was to the Society which he had sincerely believed to be necessary to the world’s governance and which he had done as much as any man to call into being, he saw now that its methods had been pushed too far. But with bitterness of soul he realized that he could do nothing. Like Endor himself he was caught in a tragic coil of Fate’s weaving.