After a moment's silence, during which he seemed to be rallying the very last of his vital forces for the effort, he said, "Well--the game is played--out. You think--you're the winner. You're--wrong--damn you--you're wrong. I wasn't--so drunk to-night that--I couldn't see." His face twisted in a hideous, malicious grin. "You--love--that artist fellow. Your--interest in his art is--all rot. It's _him_ you want--and you--you have been thinking--you'd get him--with my money--the same as I got you. But you won't. You've--lost him already. I'm glad--you love him--damn glad--because--I know that after--what he's seen of me--even if he didn't love--that mountain--girl, he wouldn't wipe--his feet on you. You've tortured me--you've mocked--and sneered and laughed--at me--in my suffering--you fiend--and I've--tried my damnedest--to pay you back. What I couldn't do--the man you love--will--do for me. You'll suffer--now in earnest. You thought you'd be a--sure winner--as soon--as I was out of--the game. But you've lost--you've lost--you've lost! I saw your love for him--in your--face to-night--as I have seen--it every time--you two were together. I saw his love--for the girl--too--and I--saw--that you--saw it. I--I--wouldn't--wouldn't die--until I'd told you--that I knew." He paused to gather his strength for the last evil effort of his evil life. The woman--who had stood, frozen with horror, her eyes fixed upon the face of the dying man, as though under a dreadful spell--cowered before him, livid with fear. Cringing, helpless--as though before some infernal monster--she hid her face; while her husband, struggling for breath to make her hear, called her every foul name he could master--derided her with fiendish glee--mocked her, taunted her, cursed her--with words too vile to print. With an oath and a profane wish for her future upon his lips, the end came. The sensual mouth opened--the diseased wasted limbs shuddered--the insane light in the lust-worn eyes went out. With a scream, Mrs. Taine sank unconscious upon the floor beside the bed. From the lower part of the house came the faint sounds of the few remaining revelers. * * * * * When Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange left the house on Fairlands Heights that night, they walked quickly, as though eager to escape from the brilliantly lighted vicinity. Neither spoke until they were some distance away. Then the novelist, checking his quick stride, pointed toward the shadowy bulk of the mountains that heaved their mighty crests and peaks in solemn grandeur high into the midnight sky. "Well, boy," he said, "the mountains are still there. It's good to see them again, isn't it?" Reaching home, the older man bade his friend good night. But the artist, declaring that he was not yet ready to turn in, went, with pipe and Czar for company, to sit for a while on the porch.