haired woman by the wheel-chair had cried—and cried out: "Faith! Faith! Faith!"
Madison swept the sweat bead from his forehead with a trembling hand. It was a lie—a lie—a lie! He had taught them to say that—but it was all bunk—and all were fools! He could laugh at them, jeer at them, mock at them, deride them—they were his playthings—and faith was his plaything—and he could laugh at them all!
And again he raised his head to laugh; and again the laugh was choked in his throat, still-born—Helena was straight! To his temples went his twitching hands. Anger raged upon him—and died in fear. Anger, for the instant maddening him, that he should lose her; rage in ungovernable fury that the game, his plans, the hoard accumulated, was bursting like a bubble before his eyes—died in fear. No, no; he had not meant to laugh or mock—no, no; not that, not that! What was this loosed titanic power that had done these things—that had brought this change in Helena; that had brought a change in the Flopper, transforming the miserable, pitiful, whining thief into a man reaching out for decent things; that had wrought at least a physical metamorphosis in Pale Face Harry—that had transfigured those three who, in their ugly, abandoned natures then, had hung like vultures on his words in the Roost that night! What was this power that he was trifling with, that brought him now this cold, dead fear before which he quailed! What was this something that in his temerity he
