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“Yes,” she agreed, “you behave like a man. You see with one eye and reason with but half of your mind. The evil you see is not all in me, James Harley. Not all of it. Why do you think that I want you to grovel? Do you think I still want you? My dear man!”

She laughed again, throwing back her head and revealing her glorious white throat. Then she became serious.

“Pull yourself together, Jimmy,” she begged, putting out her hands to deflect the pistol. “This is———”

Harley brought the heavy barrel of the pistol down upon her knuckles viciously, so that her skin was broken and the blood flowed. She drew a sharp breath, but did not cry out.

The new colour drained from her face and her knees shook as Harley thrust the muzzle of the pistol against her heart.

“Talk!” he hissed. “Talk as long as you can; but you will be better occupied talking to your God—if you have one—than to me. Talk!”

Unmistakable death leapt from his eyes. His expression was maniacal, for he knew, as the woman knew, that he loved her and must always love her; that he was fighting a terrible battle which could only end in defeat of his conscience if he hesitated to strike.

Patricia knew that he meant to kill.

For herself death did not matter, but in killing her he would destroy himself and Grace.

“Jimmy!” she screamed desperately. “Don’t! For God’s sake! Jimmy!”

Harley snarled savagely. His finger jerked the trigger.

“For Grace!” he muttered between clenched teeth.

There was no explosion.

Harley pulled the trigger savagely, once, twice, three times. The weapon was dead.