“‘Ya, ya,’ said Henkel, leaning over the table, ’but the butterfly?  The golden butterfly?  You have found it?’

“Scott opened the tin case slowly and clumsily, drew out the perfect insect, and laid it on the table.  But it is wrong to speak of that wide-winged loveliness of glittering and transparent gold as an ‘insect.’  Henkel sat staring at it, one big yellowish hand curved on either side of it, too happy to speak.  His lips moved, and I fancied he was saying to himself, ‘Cheap, cheap.’

“‘It is very good,’ he said at last, cunningly, ’but I am sorry there is only one.  I do not know that it is worth very much.  But now I will pay you as I promised.  There was no agreement that you should receive the other young man’s share, and there is only one insect.  But I will pay you.’

“Scott was fumbling in his belt.  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you will pay me,’ and he leaned forward with something in his hand.  We saw Henkel’s face turn to yellow wax, and he tried to stand up, but he was too stout to lift himself quickly.  He had no time to turn before Scott shot him through the heart.

“When I broke through the vines, Scott was moving the butterfly out of the way.  He looked up at me with his old, considering look, his old clean smile.  ‘It was cheap at the price,’ he said, touching one golden wing with his finger.”