The other's paroxysm had passed, and he sat up, weak and fainting, too weak to rise, his forehead dripping, his lips flecked with a foam made yellow by the mustard in which he had rolled. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, and groans that were like whines came from his throat. “What are you snifflin' about?” Matt demanded out of his agony. “All you got to do is die. An' when you die you're dead.” “I... ain't... snifflin'... it's... the... mustard... stingin'... my... eyes,” Jim panted with desperate slowness. It was his last successful attempt at speech. Thereafter he babbled incoherently, pawing the air with shaking arms till a fresh convulsion stretched him on the floor. Matt struggled back to the chair, and, doubled up on it, with his arms clasped about his knees, he fought with his disintegrating flesh. He came out of the convulsion cool and weak. He looked to see how it went with the other, and saw him lying motionless. He tried to soliloquize, to be facetious, to have his last grim laugh at life, but his lips made only incoherent sounds. The thought came to him that the emetic had failed, and that nothing remained but the drug store. He looked toward the door and drew himself to his feet. There he saved himself from falling by clutching the chair. Another paroxysm had begun. And in the midst of the paroxysm, with his body and all the parts of it flying apart and writhing and twisting back again into knots, he clung to the chair and shoved it before him across the floor. The last shreds of his will were leaving him when he gained the door. He turned the key and shot back one bolt. He fumbled for the second bolt, but failed. Then he leaned his weight against the door and slid down gently to the floor. CREATED HE THEM She met him at the door. “I did not think you would be so early.” “It is half past eight.” He looked at his watch. “The train leaves at 9.12.” He was very businesslike, until he saw her lips tremble as she abruptly turned and led the way. “It'll be all right, little woman,” he said soothingly. “Doctor Bodineau's the man. He'll pull him through, you'll see.” They entered the living-room. His glance quested apprehensively about, then turned to her. “Where's Al?” She did not answer, but with a sudden impulse came close to him and stood motionless. She was a slender, dark-eyed woman, in whose face was stamped the strain and stress of living. But the fine lines and the haunted look in the eyes were not the handiwork of mere worry. He knew whose handiwork it was as he looked upon it, and she knew when she consulted her mirror. “It's no use, Mary,” he said. He put his hand on her shoulder. “We've tried everything. It's a wretched business, I know, but what else can we do? You've failed. Doctor Bodineau's all that's left.” “If I had another chance...” she began falteringly.