At sight of him Wickersham’s face whitened.

“One moment, Dave,” said Keith; “wait outside a moment more.”

Dennison bowed and closed the door.  The latch clicked, but the knob did not settle back.

“I will give you one minute in which to decide,” said Keith.  He drew from his pocket and threw on the table two papers.  “There are the papers.”  He took out his watch and waited.

Wickersham picked up the papers mechanically and glanced over them.  His face settled.  Gambler that he was with the fortunes of men and the reputations of women, he knew that he had lost.  He tried one more card—­it was a poor one.

“Why are you so hard on me?” he asked, with something like a whine—­a faint whine—­in his voice.  “You, who I used to think—­whom I have known from boyhood, you have always been so hard on me!  What did I ever do to you that you should have hounded me so?”

Keith’s face showed that the charge had reached him, but it failed of the effect that Wickersham had hoped for.  His lip curled slightly.

“I am not hard on you; I am easy on you—­but not for your sake,” he added vehemently.  “You have betrayed every trust reposed in you.  You have deceived men and betrayed women.  No vow has been sacred enough to restrain you; no tie strong enough to hold you.  Affection, friendship, faith, have all been trampled under your feet.  You have deliberately attempted to destroy the happiness of one of the best friends you have ever had; have betrayed his trust and tried to ruin his life.  If I served you right I would place you beyond the power to injure any one, forever.  The reason I do not is not on your account, but because I played with you when we were boys, and because I do not know how far my personal feeling might influence me in carrying out what I still recognize as mere justice.”  He closed his watch.  “Your time is up.  Do you agree?”

“I will sign the papers,” said Wickersham, sullenly.

Keith drew out a pen and handed it to him.  Wickersham signed the papers slowly and deliberately.

“When did you take to writing backhand?” asked Keith.

“I have done it for several years,” declared Wickersham.  “I had writer’s cramp once.”

The expression on Keith’s face was very like a sneer, but he tried to suppress it.

“It will do,” he said, as he folded the papers and took another envelope from his pocket.  “This is your ticket for the steamer for Buenos Ayres, which sails to-morrow morning at high tide.  Dennison will go with you to a notary to acknowledge these papers, and then will show you aboard of her and will see that you remain aboard until the pilot leaves her.  To-morrow a warrant will be put in the hands of an officer and an application will be made for a receiver for your property.”

Wickersham leant back in his chair, with hate speaking from every line of his face.

“You will administer on my effects?  I suppose you are also going to be administrator, de bonis non, of the lady in whose behalf you have exhibited such sudden interest?”