“You’d better lie down,” suggested Keith.

Conniston, instead, rose slowly to his feet and went to a table on which a seal-oil lamp was burning.  He swayed a little as he walked.  He sat down, and Keith seated himself opposite him.  Between them lay a worn deck of cards.  As Conniston fumbled them in his fingers, he looked straight across at Keith and grinned.

“It’s queer, devilish queer,” he said.

“Don’t you think so, Keith?” He was an Englishman, and his blue eyes shone with a grim, cold humor.  “And funny,” he added.

“Queer, but not funny,” partly agreed Keith.

“Yes, it is funny,” maintained Conniston.  “Just twenty-seven months ago, lacking three days, I was sent out to get you, Keith.  I was told to bring you in dead or alive—­and at the end of the twenty-sixth month I got you, alive.  And as a sporting proposition you deserve a hundred years of life instead of the noose, Keith, for you led me a chase that took me through seven different kinds of hell before I landed you.  I froze, and I starved, and I drowned.  I haven’t seen a white woman’s face in eighteen months.  It was terrible.  But I beat you at last.  That’s the jolly good part of it, Keith—­I beat you and got you, and there’s the proof of it on your wrists this minute.  I won.  Do you concede that?  You must be fair, old top, because this is the last big game I’ll ever play.”  There was a break, a yearning that was almost plaintive, in his voice.

Keith nodded.  “You won,” he said.

“You won so square that when the frost got your lung—­”

“You didn’t take advantage of me,” interrupted Conniston.  “That’s the funny part of it, Keith.  That’s where the humor comes in.  I had you all tied up and scheduled for the hangman when—­bing!—­along comes a cold snap that bites a corner of my lung, and the tables are turned.  And instead of doing to me as I was going to do to you, instead of killing me or making your getaway while I was helpless—­Keith—­old pal—­you’ve tried to Nurse me back to life!  Isn’t that funny?  Could anything be funnier?”

He reached a hand across the table and gripped Keith’s.  And then, for a few moments, he bowed his head while his body was convulsed by another racking cough.  Keith sensed the pain of it in the convulsive clutching of Conniston’s fingers about his own.  When Conniston raised his face, the red stain was on his lips again.

“You see, I’ve got it figured out to the day,” he went on, wiping away the stain with a cloth already dyed red.  “This is Thursday.  I won’t see another Sunday.  It’ll come Friday night or some time Saturday.  I’ve seen this frosted lung business a dozen times.  Understand?  I’ve got two sure days ahead of me, possibly a third.  Then you’ll have to dig a hole and bury me.  After that you will no longer be held by the word of honor you gave me when I slipped off your manacles.  And I’m asking you—­what are you going to do?”