see what is left. I think I must have out
about five hundred pounds more in this
frightful combat. It was no use going
on from sheer stolidity, and for a fiendish
wish that they should not get all. I began
to stop; Grainger had long since lost all.
"Give me some money," he said; "I shall
go on while I have a franc left on the face
of God's earth."

"There," I said calmly, "there is one
last note, five hundred francs; after that
the curtain may come down."

Oh, I did gasp a prayer at that awful
moment. "O merciful God," I said, "have
pity, have mercy, see what depends on this
and spare me, save me—the most abject and
guilty of your creatures, and I swear——"
It came up "premier," as if to mock me,
and I fell back almost from the table.

Grainger had caught me by the arm.
"You are not going, after all that money
thrown away? Are you mad, or half-witted,
or do you want to be hung? Come back,
you fool; I tell you it must come in the
next two or three times."

"Not another franc shall they get," I
said, looking at him desperately. "Let me
go home—anything, or let me fall down
here and die among these villains."

A sudden rustle and half ejaculation.
The click, and the sharp voice of the
croupier, "ZERO!" It had come at last,
like the shower of rain, long prayed for in
the desert.

"You fool," whispered Grainger, "you
deserve it!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE shower of rain, indeed, on every
spot, save my dry, dusty heart. It was a
pile of gold, and the paying out took long.
I could look on. I saw it all done, then
walked out into the open air. Not to think
of what was to be done. Ah! There was
nothing to be done, but to get away, to go
through the first necessary process of
shutting out all sympathies, affection. Dora,—I
have finished with all that, now and for
evermore. Oh, is there pity in heaven, or
indulgence or mercy? No, no—that was no
chance that made me stop exactly at that
moment. It was design, punishment. I
was handed over to those vile torturers.
My God in Heaven, what have I done to
deserve all this? What wretch, the vilest
of sinners, could be punished, crushed,
destroyed for ever, with such refined
tortures.

.  .  .  .   I heard steps behind me. It was
Grainger tramping up to me. His eyes were
full of fury and impatience.

"A nice business you have made of it,"
he said. "What have you lost of the
money that was entrusted to you?" I did
not answer. "I say, what have you lost of
the stolen money—half?"

"Say nearly all," I replied. "The world
will know pretty soon."

"I daresay. And to think that you
might have it all in your pocket now.
Does that add to your reflections?"

"Don't weary me now, Grainger," I
said; "let me go home."

"Don't weary you! And all the fine
preaching, the prayers! This is the end
of it! Lecturing me! Infernal effrontery,
by God!"

"You are right, Grainger. It was
effrontery, and hypocrisy also."

"And so clever, too, with your directions
and advice, and superior knowledge of the
game. Clever, indeed," he added, with
growing fury. "So you thought yourself
all your life, and when you beat me about
her. By God I have beaten you this time,
and beaten you well! Time brings round
everything if we only wait."

Nothing could astonish me, or disturb
me now; but I looked at him steadily.

"Oh, you may look as you will, but I
planned it well. Planned it, every step of
it, from the first day to the present. Were
you fool enough to think I could forgive
you, or forget you, or forget her? By
Heaven, though, I never thought it would
end in this way, I never dreamed it would
end so satisfactorily. Go home now and
sleep, my friend; Zero did it for me."

So I am fool as well as villain, and am
a little surprised. But the close of all
which must come—And here I find a square
envelope, large and with "Services
Télégraphiques" written on it. Not ill! Not
dead! Oh that would be the real terror
and misfortune. No.  .  .  .  .  .  It shall go in
here, and take its place in this odd record.

      "I have just heard that Mr. Bernard
leaves to-morrow morning suddenly, and
they tell me is going to Germany, about
some money transaction. I think it right
to tell you this. What can it mean? O,
do be careful. I shall write to-night.
                                        "Your DORA."

This is better—things are improving.
I am glad he suspects, and is coming.
Grainger, I suppose, wrote to tell him. I
shall give myself up to him, to do as he
likes with, or—who knows what may happen
before he comes.  .  .  . It is not cruelty to
abandon her. If I stayed she must be
abandoned all the same. The jail—the
dock—before that was reached, it would all