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The suicide of Charles Cressler had occurred on the tenth of June, and the report of it, together with the wretched story of his friend’s final surrender to a temptation he had never outlived, reached Curtis Jadwin early on the morning of the eleventh.

He and Gretry were at their accustomed places in the latter’s office, and the news seemed to shut out all the sunshine that had been flooding in through the broad plate-glass windows. After their first incoherent horror, the two sat staring at each other, speechless.

“My God, my God,” groaned Jadwin, as if in the throes of a deadly sickness. “He was in the Crookes’ ring, and we never knew it⁠—I’ve killed him, Sam. I might as well have held that pistol myself.” He stamped his foot, striking his fist across his forehead, “Great God⁠—my best friend⁠—Charlie⁠—Charlie Cressler! Sam, I shall go mad if this⁠—if this⁠—”