The two men stood for a while in silence. Then Pericord threw his long arms up into the air. "It acts!" he cried. "The Brown-Pericord Motor acts!" He danced about like a madman in his delight. Brown's eyes twinkled, and he began to whistle. "See how smoothly it goes, Brown!" cried the inventor. "And the rudder--how well it acts! We must register it to-morrow." His comrade's face darkened and set. "It _is_ registered," he said, with a forced laugh. "Registered?" said Pericord. "Registered?" He repeated the word first in a whisper, and then in a kind of scream. "Who has dared to register my invention?" "I did it this morning. There is nothing to be excited about. It is all right." "You registered the motor! Under whose name?" "Under my own," said Brown sullenly. "I consider that I have the best right to it." "And my name does not appear?" "No, but----" "You villain!" screamed Pericord. "You thief and villain! You would steal my work! You would filch my credit! I will have that patent back if I have to tear your throat out!" A sombre fire burned in his black eyes, and his hands writhed themselves together with passion. Brown was no coward, but he shrank back as the other advanced upon him. "Keep your hands off!" he said, drawing a knife from his pocket. "I will defend myself if you attack me. "You threaten me?" cried Pericord, whose face was livid with anger. "You are a bully as well as a cheat. Will you give up the patent?" "No, I will not." "Brown, I say, give it up!" "I will not. I did the work." Pericord sprang madly forward with blazing eyes and clutching fingers. His companion writhed out of his grasp, but was dashed against the packing-case, over which he fell. The lamp was extinguished, and the whole barn plunged into darkness. A single ray of moonlight shining through a narrow chink flickered over the great waving fans as they came and went. "Will you give up the patent, Brown?" There was no answer. "Will you give it up?" Again no answer. Not a sound save the humming and creaking overhead. A cold pang of fear and doubt struck through Pericord's heart. He felt aimlessly about in the dark and his fingers closed upon a hand. It was cold and unresponsive. With all his anger turned to icy horror he struck a match, set the lamp up, and lit it. Brown lay huddled up on the other side of the packing-case. Pericord seized him in his arms, and with convulsive strength lifted him across. Then the mystery of his silence was explained. He had fallen with his right arm doubled up under him, and his own weight had driven the knife deeply into his body. He had died without a groan. The tragedy had been sudden, horrible, and complete.