She allowed him to push her toward her bed, and for no obvious reason other than physical weakness she sat upon it, her staring eyes still fixed upon his insistent face. He thought his case was won. He bent and kissed her on the cheek. He tried to raise her chin that his lips might put the seal of frailty upon hers, but she resisted him firmly, inexorably. This gave him pause. All the terrors of his moribund being gathered, screaming and threatening, from the nooks and crannies into which they had but temporarily fled. "Don't you--can't you see it as--as I do?" he pleaded, still trying to lift her chin, and realizing his defeat even in that small failure. "No!" That was all she said, but it was more than enough. He stood away from her. Indescribable contingencies now waxing into grim certainties hurtled about him--exposure, a felon's cell, the visible hatred of the man who had so completely trusted him. "No!" Celeste repeated, firmly. "There can be only one course to take, and that is the right one--right if it kills us all. You can't tell him. I must do it. He is still down there." "Is this final?" "Yes, final," she said, and stood up. He made a movement as if to stop her; it ended by his dropping his limp arms to his sides. His lips moved, but produced no sound. She left the room first, and he followed. Together they leaned over the balustrade and peered at the light below. Then she drew herself erect and started down the stairs. He watched her till she was half-way down, then turned into his room. She reached the library door. She saw the old man still bent over his calculations, a glow of satisfaction on his pink face. She heard him chuckle. No doubt he was thinking of Ruth's good fortune. She was about to enter when a grim thought suddenly clutched her as if in a vise. How strangely William had acted as they were parting up-stairs! Once before he had started to end his life. Would he be so desperate now? Why not? The crisis was even greater. She turned quickly, and, holding her breath, she darted back up the stairs and tiptoed into William's room. He was standing at his bureau. She heard a hard substance strike against one of the smaller drawers as he turned to face her. Darting to him, she grasped his arm and slid her fingers down to the revolver he was clutching. "Oh, you wouldn't do that--would you, dear?" she panted, as she wrung the weapon from his grasp. His silence was his answer. He stepped back from her. He had steeled himself for the supreme shock of death. How could he summon mere words at this ultimate moment?