“I would do nothing for you as a favor,” I answered.

“Then do it because it is right.  I’d rather it should be you.  You’ve a wrist like steel, and a mind like steel when you set yourself to do a thing.”

“I say, old man,” he went on, a trifle weary now, “you’ve won.  I’m jolly well accounted for, and it was fair.  I hope they’ll not bag you when you try to get out of this.  But won’t you promise what I’ve asked?  Won’t you promise?”

It is not for me to say whether or not I made a promise to Gordon Orme, or to say whether or not things mediaeval or occult belong with us to-day.  Neither do I expect many to believe the strange truth about Gordon Orme.  I only say it is hard to deny those about to die.

“Orme,” I said, “I wish you had laid out your life differently.  You are a wonderful man.”

“The great games,” he smiled—­“sport, love, war!” Then his face saddened.  “I say, have you kept your other promise to me?” he asked.  “Did you marry that girl—­what was her name—­Miss Sheraton?”

“Miss Sheraton is dead.”

“Married?” he asked.

“No.  She died within two months after the night I caught you in the yard.  I should have killed you then, Orme.”

He nodded.  “Yes, but at least I showed some sort of remorse—­the first time, I think.  Not a bad sort, that girl, but madly jealous.  Fighting blood, I imagine, in that family!”

“Yes,” I said, “her father and brother and I, all three, swore the same oath.”

“The same spirit was in the girl,” he said, nodding again.  “Revenge—­that was what she wanted.  That’s why it all happened.  It was what I wanted, too!  You blocked me with the only woman—­”

“Do not speak her name,” I said to him, quietly.  “The nails on your fingers are growing blue, Orme.  Go with some sort of squaring of your own accounts.  Try to think.”

He shrugged a shoulder.  “My Swami said we do not die—­we only change worlds or forms.  What!  I, Gordon Orme, to be blotted out—­to lose my mind and soul and body and senses—­not to be able to enjoy.  No, Cowles, somewhere there are other worlds, with women in them.  I do not die—­I transfer.”  But sweat stood on his forehead.

“As to going, no ways are better than this,” he mused, presently.  “I swear I’m rather comfortable now; a trifle numb—­but we—­I say, we must all—­all go some time, you know.  Did you hear me?” he repeated, smiling.  “I was just saying that we must all go, one way or another, you know.”

“I heard you,” I said.  “You are going now.”

“Yes,” he admitted, “one can’t hold together forever under a pull like this.  You’re an awfully decent sort.  Give me a bit of paper.  I want to write.”  I found him a pencil and some pages of my notebook.

“To please you, I’ll try to square some things,” he said.  “You’ve been so deuced square and straight with me, all along.  I’m—­I’m Gordon, now, I’m English.  Word of a fighting man, my—­my friend.”