“I think you said,” I began, with assumed carelessness, “that after eleven the sight of the dial no longer affects you.  As it is now nearly twelve”—­looking at my own timepiece—­“perhaps, if you don’t resent my pursuit of proof, you will look at it now.”

He smiled good-humoredly, pulled out the watch again, opened it, and instantly sprang to his feet with a cry that Heaven has not had the mercy to permit me to forget!  His eyes, their blackness strikingly intensified by the pallor of his face, were fixed upon the watch, which he clutched in both hands.  For some time he remained in that attitude without uttering another sound; then, in a voice that I should not have recognized as his, he said: 

“Damn you! it is two minutes to eleven!”

I was not unprepared for some such outbreak, and without rising replied, calmly enough: 

“I beg your pardon; I must have misread your watch in setting my own by it.”

He shut the case with a sharp snap and put the watch in his pocket.  He looked at me and made an attempt to smile, but his lower lip quivered and he seemed unable to close his mouth.  His hands, also, were shaking, and he thrust them, clenched, into the pockets of his sack-coat.  The courageous spirit was manifestly endeavoring to subdue the coward body.  The effort was too great; he began to sway from side to side, as from vertigo, and before I could spring from my chair to support him his knees gave way and he pitched awkwardly forward and fell upon his face.  I sprang to assist him to rise; but when John Bartine rises we shall all rise.

The post-mortem examination disclosed nothing; every organ was normal and sound.  But when the body had been prepared for burial a faint dark circle was seen to have developed around the neck; at least I was so assured by several persons who said they saw it, but of my own knowledge I cannot say if that was true.

Nor can I set limitations to the law of heredity.  I do not know that in the spiritual world a sentiment or emotion may not survive the heart that held it, and seek expression in a kindred life, ages removed.  Surely, if I were to guess at the fate of Bramwell Olcott Bartine, I should guess that he was hanged at eleven o’clock in the evening, and that he had been allowed several hours in which to prepare for the change.

As to John Bartine, my friend, my patient for five minutes, and—­ Heaven forgive me!—­my victim for eternity, there is no more to say.  He is buried, and his watch with him—­I saw to that.  May God rest his soul in Paradise, and the soul of his Virginian ancestor, if, indeed, they are two souls.

THE DAMNED THING

I—­ONE DOES NOT ALWAYS EAT WHAT IS ON THE TABLE