'What!' he cried. 'Did--did----' The sentence died in an unintelligible mutter. He seemed to utter a name I could not catch. All the time I was watching him intently, and never shall I forget the look that passed over his face. He had been very pale before, but now his pallor was ghastly. For a moment he looked almost like a dead man, save for the gleam in his eyes. He was like one struggling with himself, struggling to obtain the mastery over some passion in his own heart. It was some seconds before he spoke again, and then, in spite of my dislike for him, I could not help admiring him. The sinister gleam passed away from his eyes, and a look of seemingly great gladness came into his face. A second later, he had crossed the room to where Edgecumbe was. 'I say, Edgecumbe,' he said, 'was it you who did that for me?' and he held out his hand with frank heartiness. 'Did what?' asked Edgecumbe quietly. 'What--what Luscombe has been talking about. You heard, of course?' For a moment Edgecumbe looked at him awkwardly. For the second time during that evening I had subjected him to an experience which he hated. 'I wish Luscombe wouldn't talk such rot,' he replied; 'after all, it was nothing.' 'Oh, but it was!' was Springfield's reply. 'Give me your hand, man,--you saved my life. The doctors told me afterwards I had a near shave, and--and--there, you understand, don't you?' Seemingly he was overcome with emotion, and for some time he lapsed into silence. The others in the room were greatly moved, too--too moved to speak freely. There were none of those effusive congratulations which might seem natural under the circumstance. In a way the situation was dramatic, and we all felt it. Although he promised to come over on the following day, he seemed very subdued as he bade us good night, though I thought he struggled to speak naturally. It was only when he parted with Edgecumbe, however, that he showed any signs of emotion. 'Good night,' he said, as he grasped his hand. 'I shan't pretend to thank you. Words fail, don't they? But I shall never forget you, never--never; and if ever I can pay you back----' He stopped short, and seemed to be struggling to say more, but no words escaped him. A minute later he had left the house. I had barely entered my room that night, when Edgecumbe knocked at the door which led from his apartment to mine. 'May I come in?' he asked. I opened the door, and scarcely noticing me he staggered to an arm-chair, and threw himself into it. 'I want to tell you something,' he said. 'Well, what is it?' But he did not speak. He sat staring into vacancy. 'Come, old man,' I said, after a lapse of many minutes, 'what is it?' 'If I weren't sure there was another life,' was his reply, 'I--I should go mad.' 'Go mad! Why?' 'Because this life is such a mockery, such a ghastly, hollow mockery!' 'Don't be silly. Why is it a mockery?'