"That’s about the essentials," answered Verrill. "The first death was in ’73. And from that year on the vacant places at the table have steadily increased. Little by little the original bravado of the thing dropped out of it all for me; and of late years—well I have told you how it is. I’ve seen so many of them die, and die so fast, so regularly—one a year you might say,—that I’ve kept saying ’who next, who next, who’s to go this year?’ ... And as they went, one by one, and still I was left ... I tell you, Henry, the suspense was, ... the suspense is ... You see I’m the last now, and ever since Curtice died, I’ve felt this thing weighing on me. _By God, Henry, I’m afraid; I’m afraid of Death! It’s horrible!_ It’s as though I were on the list of ’condemned’ and were listening to hear my name called every minute." "Well, so are all of us, if you come to that," observed the doctor. "Oh, I know, I know," cried Verrill, "it is morbid and all that. But that don’t help me any. Can you imagine me one month from to-morrow night. Think now. I’m alone, absolutely, and there is the long empty table, with the thirty places set, and the extra place, and those places are where all my old friends used to sit. And at twelve I get up and give first ’The Absent Ones,’ and then ’The Guest of the Evening.’ I gave those toasts last year, but there were two of us, then, and the year before there were three. But ever since Curtice died and we were narrowed down to four, this thing has been weighing on me—this idea of death, and I’ve conceived a horror of it—a—a dread. And now I am the last. I had no idea this would ever happen to me; or if it did, that it would be like this. I’m shaken, Henry, shaken. I’ve not slept for three nights. So I’ve come to you. You must help me." "So I will, by advising you. You give up the idiocy. Cut out the dinner this year; yes, and for always." "You don’t understand," replied Verrill, calmly. "It is impossible. I could not keep away. I _must_ be there." "But it’s simple lunacy," expostulated the doctor. "Man, you’ve worked upon your nerves over this fool club and dinner, till I won’t be responsible for you if you carry out this notion. Come, promise me you will take the train for, say Florida, tomorrow, and _I’ll_ give you stuff that will make you sleep. St. Augustine is heaven at this time of year, and I hear the tarpon have come in. Shall—" Verrill shook his head.