And he beat on his knees with his fists, railing, raging, talking incoherently, laughing sometimes, sometimes listening, as though, suddenly, near him, a voice was mocking him.

He had a pocket full of bills, crushed up; some he gave to the cabman, some he dropped as he stuffed the others into his pockets, stumbled toward a bronze-and-glass grille, and rang.  The cabman brought him his hat, put it on him, gathered up the dropped money, and drove off with his tongue in his cheek.

Quest rang again; the door opened; he gave his card to the servant, and stealthily followed him upstairs over the velvet carpet.

Dysart, in a velvet dressing-gown knotted in close about his waist, looked over the servant’s shoulders and saw Quest standing there in the hall, leering at him.

For a moment nobody spoke; Dysart took the offered card mechanically, glanced at it, looked at Quest, and nodded dismissal to the servant.

When he and the other man stood alone, he said in a low, uncertain voice: 

“Get out of here!”

But Quest pushed past him into the lighted room beyond, and Dysart followed, very pale.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I’ve asked you questions, too,” retorted Quest.  “Answer mine first.”

“Will you get out of here?”

“Not until I take my answer with me.”

“You’re drunk!”

“I know it.  Look out!”

Dysart moistened his bloodless lips.

“What do you want to know?” And, as Quest shouted a question at him:  “Keep quiet!  Speak lower, I tell you.  My father is in the next room.”

“What in hell do I care for your father?  Answer me or I’ll choke it out of you!  Answer me now, you dancing blackguard!  I’ve got you; I want my answer, and you’ve got to give it to me!”

“If you don’t lower your voice,” said Dysart between his teeth, “I’ll throw you out of that window!”

“Lower my voice?  Why?  Because the old fox might hear the young one yap!  What do I care for you or your doddering family——­”

He went down with a sharp crash; Dysart struck him again as he rose; then, beside himself, rained blows on him, drove him from corner to corner, out of the room, into the hall, striking him in the face till the young fellow reeled and fell against the bath-room door.  It gave; he stumbled into darkness; and after him sprang Dysart, teeth set—­sprang into the darkness which split before him with a roar into a million splinters of fire.

He stood for a second swaying, reaching out to grasp at nothing in a patient, persistent, meaningless way; then he fell backward, striking a terrified servant, who shrank away and screamed as the light fell on her apron and cuffs all streaked with blood.

She screamed again as a young man’s white and battered face appeared in the dark doorway before her.

“Is he hurt?” he asked.  His dilated eyes were fixed upon the thing on the floor.  “What are you howling for?  Is he—­dead?” whispered Quest.  Suddenly terror overwhelmed him.