When he turned back again toward the fire his face was as colorless as the dead man's on the hearth; the fire of passion was gone from his beaten eyes; his step was hesitating and slow.

He went up to the table.
"I say, old man," he said, with a strange smile and an odd, premature suggestion of the infinite weariness of death in his voice, "you wouldn't mind giving me this, would you ?" and he took up the picture of Flip.

The old man nodded repeatedly.

"Thank you," said Lance.

He went to the door, paused a moment, and returned.