"Desmond, we have been friends; give me that." "I can't," he answered sullenly. "Why not?" "Because I know for what you want it, sir." Allard flung back his head and confronted the defiant face opposite with the fevered anger of his own. "And if so, is it your affair? Have you, you who have led your life, grown sentimental? You, who know from where I come and to where I am going,--you will interfere? You are wasting our time; give me my revolver, and go." But the other made no move, although sending an anxious glance through the doorway. "One gets out of prison," he said obstinately, "as I've tried myself. But that that you mean--there's no coming back. You are over young for that, sir." "You have been paid for helping me," Allard retorted, his voice savage with pain, "not for teaching me philosophy. Go take your liberty, if you can, and leave me mine. There is one door out for me, and one key. I trusted you; I might have kept the thing with me if I had imagined this." Desmond flushed, but turned coolly. "I'll go, it's time. If I was paid for helping, I gave the help. I never was paid for this you are asking." "Desmond, Desmond, you leave me so!" He turned on the threshold, a square, obstinate figure against the violet twilight. "I'd never do it," he said quite gently, "if I didn't know you'd thank me some day." "Desmond--" "Good-by, sir." "Desmond--" The doorway was empty; the evening serenata of a robin filled the hush. Allard's head sank on his arm in the darkest moment of the last somber months. But presently he looked up again. Still dressed as when the accident had happened a few hours before, he possessed a tiny box of cartridges, and only the width of the room separated him from his desire. He impulsively tossed aside the blanket and slipped to the floor. The fall drew a gasp of pain. All before faded to insignificance beside the anguish of movement. It was not the ankle only; the injury had gone farther than that. Colorless, catching his breath with difficulty, Allard dragged himself inch by inch toward the goal. Desmond was almost forgotten when the first shot on the mountain-side rang out. Startled from the mists of suffering, Allard paused an instant. Then as a very fusillade reverberated among the cliffs, he toiled on with redoubled haste. They would come next for him. It had a pearl and silver handle, that revolver. He had treasured it because it was a gift from Robert, and a souvenir too frequently duplicated to betray his identity. Now the pearl shone a glistening spot in the surrounding grayness, beckoning, tantalizing. It was so far across the room, so very far! Shots again! He struggled yet more desperately, and the resulting pang brought waves of faintness above his head. If he could only rest, so.