Berkley, hands behind his back, was pacing the dining-room carpet.

“Would you accept a glass of wine?” asked Colonel Arran in a low voice.

Berkley wheeled on him with a terrible smile.

“Shall a man drink wine with the slayer of souls?” Then, pallid face horribly distorted, he stretched out a shaking arm.  “Not that you ever could succeed in getting near enough to murder hers!  But you’ve killed mine.  I know now what died in me.  It was that! . . .  And I know now, as I stand here excommunicated by you from all who have been born within the law, that there is not left alive in me one ideal, one noble impulse, one spiritual conviction.  I am what your righteousness has made me—­a man without hope; a man with nothing alive in him except the physical brute. . . .  Better not arouse that.”

“You do not know what you are saying, Berkley”—­Colonel Arran choked; turned gray; then a spasm twitched his features and he grasped the arms of his chair, staring at Berkley with burning eyes.

Neither spoke again until Larraway entered, carrying an inlaid box.

“Thank you, Larraway.  You need not wait.”

“Thank you, sir.”

When they were again alone Colonel Arran unlocked and opened the box, and, behind the raised lid, remained invisibly busy for some little time, apparently sorting and re-sorting the hidden contents.  He was so very long about it that Berkley stirred at last in his chair; and at the same moment the older man seemed to arrive at an abrupt decision, for he closed the lid and laid two packages on the cloth between them.

“Are these mine?” asked Berkley.

“They are mine,” corrected the other quietly, “but I choose to yield them to you.”

“Thank you,” said Berkley.  There was a hint of ferocity in his voice.  He took the letters, turned around to look for his hat, found it, and straightened up with a long, deep intake of breath.

“I think there is nothing more to be said between us, Colonel Arran?”

“That lies with you.”

Berkley passed a steady hand across his eyes.  “Then, sir, there remain the ceremonies of my leave taking—­” he stepped closer, level-eyed—­“and my very bitter hatred.”

There was a pause.  Colonel Arran waited a moment, then struck the bell: 

“Larraway, Mr. Berkley has decided to go.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will accompany Mr. Berkley to the door.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And hand to Mr. Berkley the outer key of this house.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in case Mr. Berkley ever again desires to enter this house, he is to be admitted, and his orders are to be obeyed by every servant in it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Colonel Arran rose trembling.  He and Berkley looked at each other; then both bowed; and the butler ushered out the younger man.

“Pardon—­the latch-key, sir.”